THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  OF  THE 
AND  SUNLANDS 


(TWO  VOLUMES  IN  ONE.) 


By  JOflQUIN   MILLER, 

AUTHOR   OF   "SONGS   OF   SUMMER   LANDS,"   "IN   CLASSIC 
SHADES,"   ETC. 


"The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has. 
And  these  are  of  them." 


PUBLISHERS. 

W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY, 
CHICAGO. 


Copyright,  1892,  by  MORKILL,  HlGGINS  &  Co. 
Copyright,  1893,  by  W.  B  CONKEY  COMPANY. 


sc/? 


CONTENTS. 


Arizonian 9 

An  Indian  Summer 221 

Above  the  Clouds 265 

Burns 234 

Byron 239 

Even  So 250 

From  Sea  to  Sea 214 

Ina 266 

Joaquin  Murietta 293 

Kit  Carson's  Ride.-. ;. 65 

Last  Taschastas,  The 74 

Myrrh 244 

Ship  in  the  Desert,  The 132 

Tale  of  the  Tall  Alcade,  The 91 

With  Walker  in  Nicaragua 29 


524381 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 


ARIZONIAN. 


(  (    A  nd  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  ever, 

^~"V  Asthe  years  goonand  the  world  goes  over, 
'Twere  better  to  be  content  and  clever, 
In  the  tending  of  cattle    and    the  tossing  of 

clover, 

In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  growing  of  grain, 
Than  a  strong  man  striving  for  fame  or  gain; 
Be  even  as  kine  in  the  red-tipp'd  clover: 
For  they  lie  down  and  their  rests  are  rests, 
And  the  days  are  theirs,  come  sun,  come  rain, 
To  rest,  rise  up,  and  repose  again; 
While  we  wish  and  yearn,  and  pray  in  vain, 
And  hope  to  ride  on  the  billows  of  bosoms, 
And  hope  to  rest  in  the  haven  of  breasts, 
Till  the  heart  is  sicken'd  and    the    fair  hope 

dead — 

Be  even  as  clover  with  its  crown  of  blossoms, 
Even  as  blossoms  ere  the  bloom  is  shed, 

9 


I0  ARIZONIAN. 

Kiss'd  by  the  kine  and  the  brown  sweet  bee— 
For  these  have  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  air, 
And  never  a  bit  of  the  burthen  of  care: 
And  with  all  of  our  caring  what  more  have  we? 

"I  would  court  content  like  a  lover  lonely, 
I  would  woo  her,  win  her,  and  wear  her  only. 
I  would  never  go  over  the  white  sea  wall 
For  gold  or  for  glory  or  for  aught  at  all." 

He  said  these  things  as  he  stood  with  the 

Squire 

By  the  river's  rim  in  the  fields  of  clover, 
While  the  stream  flow'd  on  and  the  clouds  flew 

over, 
With  the  sun  tangled  in  and  the  fringes  afire. 

So  the  squire  lean'd  with  a  kindly  glory 
To  humor  his  guest,  and  to  hear  his  story; 
For  his  guest  had  gold,  and  he  yet  was  clever, 
And  mild  of  manner;  and,  what  was  more,  he, 
In  the  morning's  ramble  had  praised  the  kine, 
The  clover's  reach  and  the  meadows  fine, 
And  so  made  the  Squire  his  friend  forever. 


ARIZONIAN.  1 1 

His  brow    was    brown'd    by    the    sun   and 

weather, 

And  touch'd  by  the  terrible  hand  of  time; 
His  rich  black  beard  had  a  fringe  of  rime, 
As  silk  and  silver  inwove  together. 
There  were  hoops  of  gold  all  over  his  hands, 
And  across  his  breast,  in  chains  and  bands, 
Broad  and  massive  as  belts  of  leather. 

And  the  belts  of  gold  were  bright  in  the  sun, 
But  brighter  than  gold  his  black  eyes  shone 
From  their  sad  face-setting  so  swarth  and  dun — 
Brighter  than  beautiful  Santan  stone, 
Brighter  even  than  balls  of  fire, 
As    he  said,    hot-faced,    in    the    face  of    the 
Squire: — 

"  The  pines  bow'd  over,  the  stream  bent  un- 
der, 

The  cabin  was  cover'd   with  thatches  of  palm 
Down  in  a  canon  so  deep,  the  wonder 
Was  what  it  could  know  in  its  clime  but  calm; 
Down  in  a  canon  so  cleft  asunder 
By  sabre-stroke  in  the  young  world's  prime, 
It  look'd  as  if  broken  by  bolts  of  thunder, 


12  ARIZONIAN. 

And  burst  asunder  and  rent  and  riven 

By  earthquakes  driven  that  turbulent  time 

The  red  cross  lifted  red  hands  to  heaven. 

"  And  this  in  that  land  where  the  sun  goes 

down, 

And  gold  is  gather'd  by  tide  and  by  stream, 
And  maidens  are  brown  as  the  cocoa  brown, 
And  a  life  is  a  love  and  a  love  is  a  dream ; 
Where  the  winds  come  in  from  the   far  Ca- 
thay 

With  odor  of  spices  and  balm  and  bay, 
And  summer  abideth  with  man  alway, 
Nor  comes  in  a  tour  with  the  stately  June, 
And  comes  too  late  and  returns  too  soon, 

"  She  stood  in  the  shadows  as  the  sun  went 

down, 

Fretting  her  hair  with  her  fingers  brown, 
As  tall  as  the  silk-tipp'd  tassel'd  corn- 
Stood  watching  as  I  weighed  the  gold 
We  had  wash'd  that  day  where  the  river  roll'd; 
And  her  proud   lip   curl'd    with    a  sun-clime 

scorn, 


ARIZONIAN.  13 

As  she  ask'd,  '  Is  she  better  or  fairer  than  I? — 
She,  that  blonde  in  the  land  beyond, 
Where  the  sun  is  hid  and  the  seas  are  high — 
That  you  gather  in  gold  as  the  years  go  by, 
And  hoard  and  hide  it  away  for  her 
As  a  squirrel  burrows  the  black  pine-burr  ? 

"Now  the  gold  weigh'd  well,  but  was  lighter 

of  weight 

Than  we  two  had  taken  for  days  of  late, 
So  I  was  fretted,  and  brow  a-frown, 
I  said,  half-angered,  with  head  held  down — 
'Well,  yes,  she  is  fairer;  and  I  loved  her  first; 
And   shall   love  her   last,  come   worst   to  the 

worst.' 

"  Her  lips  grew  livid,  and  her  eyes  afire 
As  I  said  this  thing;  and  higher  and  higher 
The  hot  words  ran,  when  the  booming  thunder 
Peal'd  in  the  crags  and  the  pine-tops  under, 
While  up  by  the  cliff  in  the  murky  skies 
It  look'd  as  the  clouds  had  caught  the  fire — 
The  flash  and  fire  of  her  wonderful  eyes! 

"  She  turn'd  from  the  door  and  down  to  the 
river, 


I4  AR1ZONIAN. 

And  mirror'd  her  face  in  the  whimsical  tide; 
Then  threw  back  her  hair  as  if  throwing  a 

quiver, 

As  an  Indian  throws  it  back  far  from  his  side 
And  free  from  his   hands,  swinging  fast  to  the 

shoulder 
When   rushing    to  battle;    and,   turning,    she 

sigh'd 
And  shook,  and  shiver'd   as  aspens  shiver. 

"Then  a  great  green  snake  slid  into  the  river, 
Glistening  green,  and  with  eyes  of  fire; 
Quick,  double-handed  she  seized  a  boulder, 
And  cast  it  with  all  the  fury  of  passion, 
As  with  lifted  head  it  went  curving  across, 
Swift  darting  its  tongue  like  a  fierce  desire, 
Curving  and 'curving,  lifting  higher  and  higher, 
Bent  and  beautiful  as  a  river  moss; 
Then,    smitten,    it  turn'd,   bent,   broken    and 

doubled 

And  lick'd,  red-tongued,  like  a  forked  fire, 
Till  it  made  the  very  waters  to  shiver: 
Then  sank  and  the  troubled  waters  bubbled 
And  so  swept  on  in  the  old  swift  fashion. 

"I  lay  in  my  hammock:  the  air  was  heavy 


ARIZONIAN.  15 

And  hot  and  threatening;  the  very  heaven 
Was  holding  its  breath;  and  bees  in  a  bevy 
Hid  under  my  thatch;  and  birds  were  driven 
In  clouds  to  the  rocks  in  a  hurried  whirr 
As  I  peer'd  down  by  the  path  for  her. 

"She  stood  like  a  bronze  bent  over  the  river, 
The  proud  eyes  fix'd,  the  passion  unspoken. 
Then   the   heavens    broke  like  a  great  dyke 

broken; 

And  ere  I  fairly  had  time  to  give  her 
A  shout  of  warning,  a  rushing  of  wind 
And  the  rolling  of  clouds  and  a  deafening  din 
And  a  darkness  that  had  been  black  to  the  blind 
Came  down,  as  I   shouted,  'Come  in!  Come  in! 
Come  under  the  roof,  come  up   from  the  river, 
As   up  from  the  grave — come   now,   or  come 

never!' 

The  tassel'd  tops  of  the  pines  were  as  weeds, 
The  red-woods   rock'd  like  to   lake-side  reeds, 
And  the  world  seemed   darken'd  and  drown'd 

forever, 
'While  I    crouched  low;  as  a  beast  that  bleeds. 

"One  time   in  the   night  as  the   black  wind 
shifted, 


jg  ARIZONIAN. 

And   a  flash  of  lightning  stretchy    over  the 

stream. 
I  seemed  to  see  her  with  her  brown   hands 

lifted— 

Only  seem'd  to  see   as  one  sees  in  a  dream— 
With  her  eyes  wide  wild   and   her   pale   lips 

press'd, 
And  the  blood  from  her  brow,  and  the  flood  to 

her  breast; 
When  the  flood   caught  her  hair  as  flax  in  a 

wheel, 
And  wheeling  and  whirling   her  round  like  a 

reel; 

Laugh'dloud  her  despair,  then  leapt  like  a  steed, 
Holding  tight  to  her  hair,  folding   fast  to  her 

heel, 
Laughing  fierce,  leaping  far  as  if  spurr'd  to  its 

speed! 

"Now  mind,  I  tell  you  all  this  did  but  seem— 
Was  seen  as  you  see  fearful  scenes  in  a  dream; 
For  what  the  devil  could  the  lightning  show 
In  a  night  like  that,  I  should  like  to  know! 

"  And  then  I  slept,  and  sleeping  I  dream'd 


AKIZOMAX.  17 

Of  great  green  serpents  with  tongues  of  fire, 
And  of  death  by  drowning,  and  of  after  death — 
Of  the  day  of  judgment,  wherein  it  seem'd 
That  she,  the  heathen,  was  bidden  higher, 
Higher  than  I;  that  I  clung  to  her  side, 
And  clinging  struggled,  and  struggling  cried, 
And  crying,  wakened  all  weak  of  my  breath. 

"  Long  leaves  of  the  sun  lay  over  the  floor, 
And  a  chipmunk  chirp'd  at  the  open  door. 
But  above  on  his  crag  the  eagle  scream'd, 
Scream'd  as  he  never  had  scream'd  before. 
I  rush'd  to  the  river:  the  flood  had  gone 
Like  a  thief,  with  only  his  tracks  upon 
The  weeds  and  grasses  and  warm  wet  sand; 
And  I  ran  after  with  reaching  hand, 
And  call'd  as  I  reach'd  and  reach'd  as  I  ran, 
And  ran  till  I  came  to  the  canon's  van. 
Where  the  waters  lay  in  a  bent  lagoon, 
Hook'd  and  crook'd  like  the  horned  moon. 

"  Lo!  there  in  the  surge  where  the  waters 

met. 

And  the  warm  wave  lifted,  and  the  winds  did 
fret 


ig  ARIZONIAN. 

The  wave  till  it  foam'd  with  rage  on  the  land, 
She  lay  with  the  wave  on  the  warm  white  sand; 
Her  rich  hair  trailed  with  the  trailing  weeds, 
While   her   small  brown   hands   lay  prone  or 

lifted 

As  the  waves  sang  strophes  in  the  broken  reeds, 
Or  paused  in  pity,  and  in  silence  sifted 
Sands  of  gold,  as  upon  her  grave. 
And  as  sure  as  you  see  yon  browsing  kine, 
And  breathe  the  breath  of  your  meadows  fine, 
When  I  went  to  my  waist  in  the  warm  white 

wave 

And  stood  all  pale  in  the  wave  to  my  breast, 
And  reach'd  my  hands  in  her  rest  and  unrest, 
Her  hands  were  lifted  and  reach'd  to  mine. 


"  Now  mind,  I  tell  you, I  cried,  '  Come  in! 
Come  into  the  house,  come  out  from  the  hollow, 
Come   out  of  the  storm,   come  up   from   the 

river! ' 

Cried,  and  call'd  in  that  desolate  din, 
Though  I  did  not  rush  out,  and  in  plain  words 

give  her 

A  word  warning  of  the  flood  to  follow, 
Word  by  word,  and  letter  by  letter: 


ARIZONIAN.  ig 

But  she  knew  it  as  well  as  I,  and  better; 
For  once  in  the  desert  of  New  Mexico 
When  we  sought  frantically  far  and  wide 
For  the  famous  spot  where  the  Apache  shot 
With  bullets  of  gold  their  buffalo, 
And  she  stood  faithful  to  death  at  my  side, 
I  threw  me  down  in  the  hard  hot  sand 
Utterly  famish'd,  and  ready  to  die; 
Then  a  speck  arose  in  the  red-hot  sky — 
A  speck  no  larger  than  a  lady's  hand — 
While  she  at  my  side  bent  tenderly  over, 
Shielding  my  face  from  the  sun  as  a  cover, 
And  wetting  my  face,  as  she  watch'd  by  my 

side, 

From  a  skin  she  had  borne  till  the  high  noon- 
tide, 

( I  had  emptied  mine  in  the  heat  of  the  morning) 
When  the  thunder  mutter'd  far  over  the  plain 
Like  a  monster  bound  or  a  beast  in  pain: 
She  sprang  the  instant,  and  gave  the  warning, 
With  her  brown  hand  pointed  to  the  burning 

skies, 

For  I  was  too  weak  unto  death  to  rise. 
But  she  knew  the  peril,  and  her  iron  will, 
With  a  heart  as  true  as  the  great  North  Star, 


20  ARIZONIAN. 

Did  bear  me  up  to  the  palm-tipp'd  hill, 
Where  the  fiercest  beasts  in  a  brotherhood, 
Beasts  that  had  fled  from  the  plain  and  far, 
In  perfectest  peace  expectant  stood, 
With  their  heads  held  high,  and  their  limbs 

a-quiver. 

Then  ere  she  barely  had  time  to  breathe 
The  boiling  waters  began  to  seethe 
From  hill  to  hill  in  a  booming  river, 
Beating  and  breaking  from  hill  to  hill — 
Even  while  yet  the  sun  shot  fire, 
Without  the  shield  of  a  cloud  above — 
Filling  the  canon  as  you  would  fill 
A  wine-cup,  drinking  in  swift  desire, 
With  the  brim  new-kiss'd  by  the  lips  you  love! 

"  So  you  see  she  knew — knew  perfectly  well, 
As  well  as  I  could  shout  and  tell, 
That  the  mountain  would  send  a  flood  to  the 

plain, 

Sweeping  the  gorge  like  a  hurricane, 
When  the  fire  flash'd  and  the  thunder  fell. 

"  Therefore  it  is  wrong,  and  I  say  therefore 
Unfair,  that  a  mystical,  brown-wing'd  moth 


ARIZONIAN.  21 

Or  midnight  bat  should  forevermore 
Fan  past  my  face  with  its  wings  of  air, 
And  follow  me  up,  down,  everywhere, 
Flit  past,  pursue  me,  or  fly  before, 
Dimly  limning  in  each  fair  place 
The  full  fixed  eyes  and  the  sad,  brown  face, 
So  forty  times  worse  than  if  it  were  wroth! 

"  I  gather'd  the  gold  I  had  hid  in  the  earth, 
Hid  over  the  door  and  hid  under  the  hearth: 
Hoarded  and  hid,  as  the  world  went  over, 
For  the  love  of  a  blonde  by  a  sun-brown'd  lover, 
And  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  set  my  face 
To  the  East  and  afar  from  the  desolate  place, 
'  She  has  braided  her  tresses,  and  through  her 

tears 

Look'd  away  to  the  West  for  years,  the  years 
That  I  have  wrought  where  the  sun  tans  brown; 
She  has  waked  by  night,  she  has  watch'd  by  day, 
She  has  wept  and  wonder'd  at  my  delay, 
Alone  and  in  tears,  with  her  head  held  down, 
Where  the  ships  sail  out  and  the  seas  swirl  in, 
Forgetting  to  knit  and  refusing  to  spin. 

"She  shall  lift  her  head,  she  shall    see  her 
lover, 


22  ARJZONIAN. 

She  shall  hear  his  voice  like  a  sea  that  rushes, 
She  shall  hold  his  gold  in  her  hands  of  snow, 
And  down  on  his  breast    she    shall  hide  her 

blushes, 

And  never  a  care  shall  her  true  heart  know, 
While  the  clods  are  below,  or  the  clouds  are 

above  her.' 

"On  the  fringe  of  the  night  she  stood  with 

her  pitcher 
At  the  old  town  fountain:     and  oh!  passing 

fair. 

'I  am  riper  now,'  I  said,  'but  am  richer,' 
And  I  lifted  my  hand  to  my  beard  and  hair;. 
'I  am  burnt  by  the  sun,  I  am  brown'd  by  the 

sea; 

I  am  white  of  my  beard,  and  am  bald,  may  be; 
Yet  for  all  such  things    what    can  her  heart 

care?" 
Then  she  moved;  and  I  said,  'How  marvelous 

fair ! ' 
She  look'd  to  the  West,  with  her  arm  arch'd 

over; 

'Looking  for  me,  her  sun-brown'd  lover,' 
I  said  to  myself,  and  my  heart  grew  bold, 


ARIZONIAN.  23 

And  I  stepp'd  me  nearer  to  her  presence  there, 
As  approaching  a  friend;  for  'twas  here  of  old 
Our  troths  were  plighted  and  the  tale  was  told. 

"  How  young  she  was  and  how  fair  she  was  ! 
How  tall  as  a  palm,  and  how  pearly  fair, 
As  the  night  came  down  on  her  glorious  hair  ! 
Then  the  night  grew  deep  and  my  eyes  grew 

dim, 

And  a  sad-faced  figure  began  to  swim 
And  float  by  my  face,  flit  past,  then  pause, 
With  her  hands  held  up  and  her  head    held 

down, 
Yet  face  to  face;  and  that  face  was  brown  ! 

"  Now  why  did  she  come  and  confront  me 

there, 
With  the  flood  to  her  face  and  the  moist  in  her 

hair, 

And  a  mystical  stare  in  her  marvelous  eyes? 
I  had  call'd  to  her  twice,  'Come  in!  come  in  ! 
Come  out  of  the  storm  to  the  calm  within  ! ' 
Now,  that  is  the  reason  I  make  complain 
That  for  ever  and  ever  her  face  should  rise, 
Facing  face  to  face  with  her  great  sad  eyes, 


24  ARIZONIAN. 

I  said  then  to  myself,  and  I  say  it  again, 
Gainsay  it  you,  gainsay  it  who  will, 
I  shall  say  it  over  and  over  still, 
And  will  say  it  ever;  I  know  it  true, 
That  I  did  all  that  a  man  could  do 
(Some  good  men's  doings  are  done  in  vain) 
To  save  that  passionate  child  of  the  sun, 
With  her  love  as  deep  as  the  doubled  main, 
And  as  strong  and  fierce  as  a  troubled  sea — 
That  beautiful  bronze  with  its  soul  of  fire, 
Its  tropical  love  and  its  kingly  ire — 
That  child  as  fix'd  as  a  pyramid, 
As  tall  as  a  tula  and  pure  as  a  nun— 
And  all  there  is  of  it,  the  all  I  did, 
As  often  happens  was  done  in  vain. 
So  there  is  no  bit  of  her  blood  on  me. 

"  'She    is  marvelous  young  and   is  wonderful 

fair,' 

I  said  again,  and  my  heart  grew  bold, 
And  beat  and  beat  a  charge  for  my  feet. 
'Time  that  defaces  us,  places,  and  replaces  us, 
And  trenches  our  faces  in  furrows  for  tears, 
Has  traced  here  nothing  in  all  these  years. 
Tis  the  hair  of  gold  that  I  vex'd  of  old, 


ARIZONIAN.  25 

The  marvelous  flowing  flower  of  hair, 
And  the  peaceful  eyes  in  their  sweet  surprise 
That  I  have  kiss'd  till  the  head  swam  round. 
And  the  delicate  curve  of  the  dimpled  chin, 
And  the  pouting  lips  and  the  pearls  within 
Are  the  same,  the  same,  but  so  young,  so  fair!' 
My  heart  leapt  out  and  back  at  a  bound, 
As  a  child  that  starts,  then  stops,  then  lingers. 
'How  wonderful  young!'  I  lifted  my  ringers 
And  fell  to  counting  the  round  years  down 
That  I  had  dwelt  where  the  sun  tans  brown. 

"Four  full  hands,  and  a  finger  over! 
'She  does  not  know  me,  her  truant  lover,' 
I  said  to  myself,  for  her  brow  was  a-frown 
As  I  stepp'd  still  nearer,  with  my  head  held 

down, 
All   abash'd   and    in    blushes   my   brown    face 

over; 

'She  does  not  know  me,  her  long  lost  lover, 
For  my  beard's  so  long  and  my  skin's  so  brown 
That  I  well  might  pass  myself  for  another.' 
So  I  lifted  my  voice  and  I  spake  aloud: 
"Annette,  my  darling!  Annette  Macleod!' 
She  started,  she  stopped,  she  turn'd,  amazed, 


25  ARIZON1AN. 

She  stood  all  wonder,  her  eyes  wild-wide, 
Then  turn'd  in  terror  down  the  dusk  wayside, 
And  cried  as  she  fled,  'The  man  he  is  crazed, 
And  he  calls  the  maiden  name  of  my  mother!' 

"Let  the  world  turn  over,  and  over,  and  over, 
And  toss  and  tumble  like  beasts  in  pain, 
Crack,  quake,  and  tremble,  and  turn  full  over 
And  die,  and  never  rise  up  again; 
Let  her  dash   her   peaks   through   the   purple 

cover, 

Let  her  plash  her  seas  in  the  face  of  the  sun— 
I  have  no  one  to  love  me  now,  not  one, 
In  a  world  as  full  as  a  world  can  hold; 
So  I  will  get  gold  as  I  erst  have  done, 
I  will  gather  a  coffin  top-full  of  gold, 
To  take  to  the  door  of  Death,  to  buy- 
Buy  what,  when  I  double  my  hands  and  die? 

"  Go  down,  go  down  to  the  fields  of  clover, 
Go  down  with  your  kine  to  the  pastures  fine, 
And  give  no  thought,  or  care,  or  labor 
For  maid  or  man,  good  name  or  neighbor; 
For  I  gave  all  as  the  years  went  over — 
Gave  all  my  youth,  my  years  and  labor, 


ARIZONIAN.  27 

And  a  heart  as  warm  as  the  world  is  cold, 
For  a  beautiful,  bright,  and  delusive  lie. 
Gave  youth,  gave  years,  gave  love  for  gold; 
Giving  and  getting,  yet  what  have  I  ? 

"  The  red  ripe  stars  hang  low  overhead, 
Let  the  good  and  the  light  of  soul  reach  up. 
Pluck  gold  as  plucking  a  butter-cup: 
But  I  am  as  lead,  and  my  hands  are  red. 

"  So  the  sun  climbs  up,  and  on,  and  over, 
And  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
And  the  pale  moon  rubs  on  her  purple  cover 
Till  worn  as  thin  and  as  bright  as  tin; 
But  the  ways  are  dark  and  the  days  are  dreary, 
And  the  dreams  of  youth  are  but  dust  in  age, 
And  the  heart  grows  harden'd  and  the  hands 

grow  weary, 
Holding  them  up  for  their  heritage. 

"  For  you  promise  so  great  and  we  gain  so 

little; 

For  you  promise  so  great  of  glory  and  gold, 
And  we  gain  so  little  that  the  hands  grow  cold, 
And  the  strained  heart-strings  wear  bare  and 

brittle, 


28  ARIZONJAN. 

And  for  gold  and  glory  we  gain  instead 
A  fond  heart  sicken'd  and  a  fair  hope  dead. 

"So  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  over, 
And  can  prove  it  over  and  over  again, 
That  the  four-footed  beasts  in  the  red-crown'd 

clover, 

The  pied  and  horned  beasts  on  the  plain 
That  lie  down,  rise  up,  and  repose  again, 
And  do  never  take  care  or  toil  or  spin, 
Nor  buy,  nor  build,  nor  gather  in  gold, 
Though  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
Are  better  than  we  by  a  thousand  fold; 
For  what  is  it  all,  in  the  words  of  fire, 
But  a  vexing  of  soul  and  a  vain  desire?  " 


•*  X  » 


WITH  WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA. 


COME  to  my  sunland!    Come  -with  me 
To  the  land  I  love ;  -where  the  sun  and  sea 
Are  -wed  for  ever  ;  where  palm  and  fine 
Are  fill' d -with  singers  ;  -where  tree  and  vine 
Are  voiced  -with  prophets!    O  come,  and  you. 
Shall  sing  a  song  -with  the  seas  that  swirl 
And  kiss  their  hands  to  that  cold  -while  girl. 
To  the  maiden  moon  in  her  mantle  of  blue. 


HE  was  all  man:  let  this  be  said 
Above  my  brave  dishonor'd  dead. 
I  ask  no  more,  this  is  not  much, 
Yet  I  disdain  a  colder  touch 
To  memory  as  dear  as  his; 
For  he  was  true  as  God's  north  star, 
And  brave  as  Yuba's  grizzlies  are, 
Yet  gentle  as  a  panther  is, 
Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss. 

A  dash  of  sadness  in  his  air, 
Born,  maybe,  of  his  over  care, 
And  may  be,  born  of  a  despair 
In  early  love — I  never  knew; 

29 


30  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 

J  question'd  not,  as  many  do, 

Of  things  as  sacred  as  this  is; 

I  only  knew  that  he  to  me 

Was  all  a  father,  friend,  could  be; 

I  sought  to  know  no  more  than  this 

Of  history  of  him  or  his. 


A  piercing  eye,  a  princely  air, 
A  presence  like  a  chevalier, 
Half  angel  and  half  Lucifer; 
Sombrero  black,  with  plume  of  snow 
That  swept  his  long  silk  locks  below; 
A  red  scrape  with  bars  of  gold, 
All  heedless  falling,  fold  on  fold; 
A  sash  of  silk,  where  flashing  swung 
A  sword  as  swift  as  serpent's  tongue, 
In  sheath  of  silver  chased  in  gold; 
And  Spanish  spurs  with  bells  of  steel 
That  dash'd  and  dangled  at  the  heel; 
A  face  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
Of  mingled  pleading  and  disdain, 
With  shades  of  glory  and  of  grief — 
The  famous  filibuster  chief 
Stood  by  his  tent  amid  the  trees 
That  top  the  fierce  Cordilleras, 


WITH    WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA.  3! 

With  bent  arm  arch'd  above  his  brow; — 
Stood  still — he  stands,  a  picture,  now — 
Long  gazing  down  the  sunset  seas. 


n. 


WHAT  strange,  strong,  bearded  men  are  thesn 

He  led  toward  the  tropic  seas! 

Men  sometimes  of  uncommon  birth, 

Men  rich  in  histories  untold, 

Who  boasted  not,  though  more  than  bold, 

Blown  from  the  four  parts  of  the  earth. 

Men  mighty-thew'd  as  Samson  was, 
That  had  been  kings  in  any  cause, 
A  remnant  of  the  races  past; 
Dark-brow'd  as  if  in  iron  cast, 
Broad-breasted  as  twin  gates  of  brass, — 
Men  strangely  brave  and  fiercely  true, 
Who  dared  the  West  when  giants  were, 
Who  err'd,  yet  bravely  dared  to  err; 
A  remnant  of  that  early  few 
Who  held  no  crime  or  curse  or  vice 
As  dark  as  that  of  cowardice; 


32  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

With  blendings  of  the  worst  and  best 
Of  faults  and  virtues  that  have  blest 
Or  cursed  or  thrill'd  the  human  breast. 

They  rode,  a  troop  of  bearded  men, 
Rode  two  and  two  out  from  the  town, 
And  some  were  blonde  and  some  were  brown, 
And  all  as  brave  as  Sioux;  but  when 
From  San  Bennetto  south  the  line 
That  bound  them  in  the  laws  of  man 
Was  pass'd,  and  peace  stood  mute  behind 
And  stream'd  a  banner  to  the  wind 
The  world  knew  not,  there  was  a  sign 
Of  awe,  of  silence,  rear  and  van. 

Men  thought  who  never  thought  before; 
I  heard  the  clang  and  clash  of  steel 
From  sword  at  hand  or  spur  at  heel 
And  iron  feet,  but  nothing  more. 
Some  thought  of  Texas,  some  of  Maine, 
But  one  of  rugged  Tennessee, — 
And  one  of  Avon  thought,  and  one 
Thought  of  an  isle 'beneath  the  sun, 
And  one  of  Wabash,  one  of  Spain, 
And  one  turn'd  sadly  to  the  Spree. 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  33 

Defeat  meant  something  more  than  death; 
The  world  was  ready,  keen  to  smite, 
As  stern  and  still  beneath  its  ban 
With  iron  will  and  bated  breath, 
Their  hands  against  their  fellow-man, 
They  rode — each  man  an  Ishmaelite. 
But  when  we  struck  the  hills  of  pine, 
These  men  dismounted,  doff  d  their  cares, 
Talk'd  loud  and  laugh'd  old  love  affairs, 
And  on  the  grass  took  meat  and  wine, 
And  never  gave  a  thought  again 
To  land  or  life  that  lay  behind, 
Or  love,  or  care  of  any  kind 
Beyond  the  present  cross  or  pain, 

And  I,  a  waif  of  stormy  seas, 
A  child  among  such  men  as  these, 
Was  blown  along  this  savage  surf 
And  rested  with  them  on  the  turf, 
And  took  delight  below  the  trees. 
I  did  not  question,  did  not  care 
To  know  the  right  or  wrong.     I  saw 
That  savage  freedom  had  a  spell, 
And  loved  it  more  than  I  can  tell. 
And  snapp'd  my  fingers  at  the  law. 


4  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA, 

I  bear  my  burden  of  the  shame, — 
I  shun  it  not,  and  naught  forget, 
However  much  I  may  regret: 
I  claim  some  candor  to  my  name, 

And  courage  cannot  change  or  die, — 
Did  they  deserve  to  die?  they  died. 
Let  justice  then  be  satisfied, 
And  as  for  me,  why,  what  am  I  ? 

The  standing  side  by  side  till  death. 
The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend, 
The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end, 
The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 
And  body  took  their  ways  apart, 
I  only  know.     I  keep  my  trust. 
Their  vices!  earth  has  them  by  heart. 
Their  virtues!  they  are  with  their  dust. 

How  wound  we  through  the  solid  wood, 
With  all  its  broad  boughs  hung  in  green, 
With  lichen  mosses  trail'd  between! 
How  waked  the  spotted  beasts  of  prey, 
Deep  sleeping  from  the  face  of  day, 
And  dashed  them  like  a  troubled  flood 
Down  some  defile  and  denser  wood! 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  35 

And  snakes,  long,  lithe  and  beautiful 
As  green  and  graceful  bough'd  bamboo, 
Did  twist  and  twine  them  through  and  through 
The  boughs  that  hung  red-fruited  full. 
One,  monster-sized,  above  me  hung, 
Close  eyed  me  with  his  bright  pink  eyes, 
Then  raised  his  fojds,  and  sway'd  and  swung, 
And  lick'd  like  lightning  his  red  tongue, 
Then  oped  his  wide  mouth  with  surprise; 
He  writhed  and  curved  and  raised  and  low- 

er'd 

His  folds  like  liftings  of  the  tide, 
And  sank  so  low  I  touch'd  his  side, 
As  I  rode  by,  with  my  bright  sword. 

The  trees  shook  hands  high  overhead, 
And  bow'd  and  intertwined  across 
The  narrow  way,  while  leaves  and  moss 
And  luscious  fruit,  gold-hued  and  red, 
Through  all  the  canopy  of  green, 
Let  not  one  sunshaft  shoot  between. 

Birds  hung  and  swung,  green-robed  and 

red, 
Or  droop'd  in  curved  lines  dreamily, 


36  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 

Rainbows  reversed,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Or  sang  low  hanging  overhead- 
Sang  low,  as  if  they  sang  and  slept, 
Sang  faint  like  some  far  waterfall, 
And  took  no  note  of  us  at  all, 
Though  nuts  that  in  the  way  were  spread 
Did  crush  and  crackle  as  we  stept. 

Wild  lilies,  tall  as  maidens  are, 
As  sweet  of  breath,  as  pearly  fair 
As  fair  as  faith,  as  pure  as  truth, 
Fell  thick  before  our  every  tread, 
In  fragrant  sacrifice  to  ruth. 
The  ripen'd  fruit  a  fragrance  shed 
And  hung  in  hand-reach  overhead, 
In  nest  of  blossoms  on  the  shoot, 
The  bending  shoot  that  bore  the  fruit. 

How    ran    lithe    monkeys      through    the 

leaves ! 
How  rush'd  they  through,  brown  clad  and 

blue, 

Like  shuttles  hurried  through  and  through 
The  threads  a  hasty  weaver  weaves! 

How  quick  they  cast  us  fruits  of  gold, 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  37 

Then  loosen'd  hand  and  all  foothold, 
And  hung  limp,  limber,  as  if  dead, 
Hung  low  and  listless  overhead; 
And  all  the  time  with  half-oped  eyes 
Bent  full  on  us  in  mute  surprise — 
Look'd  wisely,  too,  as  wise  hens  do 
That  watch  you  with  the  head  askew. 

The  long  day  through  from  blossom'd  trees 
There  came  the  sweet  song  of  sweet  bees, 
With  chorus-tones  of  cockatoo 
That  slid  his  beak  along  the  bough, 
And  walk'd  and  talk'd  and  hung  and  swung, 
In  crown  of  gold  and  coat  of  blue, 
The  wisest  fool  that  ever  sung, 
Or  had  a  crown,  or  held  a  tongue. 

Oh!when  we  broke  the  somber  wood 
And  pierced  at  last  the  sunny  plain, 
How  wild  and  still  with  wonder  stood 
The  proud  mustangs  with  banner'd  mane, 
And  necks  that  never  knew  a  rein, 
And  nostrils  lifted  high,  and  blown, 
Fierce  breathing  as  a  hurricane: 
Yet  by  their  leader  held  the  while 


38  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

In  solid  column,  square,  and  file 

And  ranks  more  martial  than  our  own  ! 


Some  one  above  the  common  kind, 
Some  one  to  look  to,  lean  upon, 
I  think  is  much  a  woman's  mind; 
But  it  was  mine,  and  I  had  drawn 
A  rein  beside  the  chief  while  we 
Rode  through  the  forest  leisurely; 
When  he  grew  kind  and  question'd  me 
Of  kindred,  home,  and  home  affair, 
Of  how  I  came  to  wander  there, 
And  had  my  father  herds  and  land 
And  men  in  hundreds  at  command? 
At  which  I  silent  shook  my  head, 
Then,  timid,  met  his  eyes  and  said, 
"Not  so.    Where  sunny-foot  hills  run 
Down  to  the  North  Pacific  sea, 
And  Willamette  meets  the  sun 
In  many  angles,  patiently 
My  father  tends  his  flocks  of  snow, 
And  turns  alone  the  mellow  sod 
And  sows  some  fields  not  over  broad, 
And  mourns  my  long  delay  in  vain, 
Nor  bids  one  serve-man  come  or  go; 


WITH    WALKER     IX    NICARAGUA.  39 

While  mother  from  her  wheel  or  churn, 
And  may  be  from  the  milking  shed, 
There  lifts  an  humble,  weary  head 
To  watch  and  wish  her  boy's  return 
Across  the  camas'  blossom'd  plain." 

He  held  his  bent  head  very  low, 
A  sudden  sadness  in  his  air; 
Then  turn'd  and  touch'd  my  yellow  hair 
And  took  the  long  locks  in  his  hand, 
Toy'd  with  them,  smiled,  and  let  them  go, 
Then  thrumm'd  about  his  saddle  bow 
As  thought  ran  swift  across  his  face; 
Then  turning  sudden  from  his  place, 
He  gave  some  short  and  quick  command. 
They  brought  the  best  steed  of  the  band, 
They  swung  a  bright  sword  at  my  side, 
He  bade  me  mount  and  by  him  ride, 
And  from  that  hour  to  the  end 
I  never  felt  the  need  of  friend. 

Far  in  the  wildest  quinine  wood 
We  found  a  city  old — so  old, 
Its  very  walls  were  turn'd  to  mould, 
And  stately  trees  upon  them  stood. 


4O  WITH    WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA. 

No  history  has  mention'd  it, 

No  map  has  given  it  a  place; 

The  last  dim  trace  of  tribe  and  race— 

The  world's  forgetfulness  is  fit. 

It  held  one  structure  grand  and  moss'd, 
Mighty  as  any  castle,  sung, 
And  old  when  oldest  Ind  was  young, 
With  threshold  Christian  never  cross'd; 
A  temple  builded  to  the  sun, 
Along  whose  sombre  altar-stone 
Brown  bleeding  virgins  had  been  strown 
Like  leaves,  when  leaves  are  crisp  and  dun, 
In  ages  ere  the  Sphinx  was  born, 
Or  Babylon  had  birth  or  morn. 
My  chief  led  up  the  marble  step — 
He  ever  led,  broad  blade  in  hand — 
When  down  the  stones,  with  double  hand 
Clutched  to  his  sword,  a  Sun  priest  leapt, 
Hot  bent  to  barter  life  for  life. 
The  chieftain  drove  his  bowie  knife, 
Full  through  his  thick  and  broad  breast-bone, 
And  broke  the  point  against  the  stone, 
The  dark  stone  of  the  temple  wall. 
I  saw  him  loose  his  hold  and  fall 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  4! 

Full  length  with  head  hung  down  the  step; 

I  saw  run  down  a  ruddy  flood 

Of  awful,  pulsing  human  blood. 

Then  from  the  crowd  a  woman  crept 

And  kiss'd  the  gory  hands  and  face, 

And  smote  herself.     Then  one  by  one 

The  dark  crowd  crept  and  did  the  same, 

Then  bore  the  dead  man  from  the  place. 

Down  darken'd  aisles  the  brown  priests  came, 

So  picture-like,  with  sandall'd  feet 

And  long,  grey,  dismal,  grass-wove  gowns, 

So  like  the  pictures  of  old  time, 

And  stood  all  still  and  dark  of  frowns, 

At  blood  upon  the  stone  and  street. 

So  we  laid  ready  hand  to  sword 
And  boldly  spoke  some  bitter  word; 
But  they  were  stubborn  still,  and  stood 
Fierce  frowning  as  a  winter  wood, 
And  mutt'ring  something  of  the  crime 
Of  blood  upon  a  temple  stone, 
As  if  the  first  that  it  had  known. 

We  turn'd  toward  the  massive  door 
With  clash  of  steel  at  heel,  and  with 


42  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

Some  swords  all  red  and  ready  drawn.   • 
I  traced  the  sharp  edge  of  my  sword 
Along  the  marble  wall  and  floor 
For  crack  or  crevice;  there  was  none. 
From  one  vast  mount  of  marble  stone 
The  mighty  temple  had  been  cored 
By  nut-brown  children  of  the  sun, 
When  stars  were  newly  bright  and  blithe 
Of  song  along  the  rim  of  dawn, 
A  mighty  marble  monolith! 


in. 


THROUGH  marches  through  the   mazy  wood, 
And  may  be  through  too  much  of  blood, 
At  last  we  came  down  to  the  seas. 
A  city  stood,  white  wall'd,  and  brown 
With  age,  in  nest  of  orange  trees; 
And  this  we  won  and  many  a  town 
And  rancho  reaching  up  and  down, 
Then  rested  in  the  red-hot  days 
Beneath  the  blossom'd  orange  trees, 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  43 

Made  drowsy  with  the  drum  of  bees, 
And  drank  in  peace  the  south-sea  breeze, 
Made  sweet  with  sweeping  boughs  of  bays. 

Well!  there  were  maidens,  shy  at  first, 
And  then,  ere  long,  not  over  shy, 
Yet  pure  of  soul  and  proudly  chare. 
No  love  on  earth  has  such  an  eye! 
No  land  there  is,  is  bless'd  or  curs'd 
With  such  a  limb  or  grace  of  face, 
Or  gracious  form,  or  genial  air! 

• 

In  all  the  bleak  North-land  not  one 
Hath  been  so  warm  of  soul  to  me 
As  coldest  soul  by  that  warm  sea, 
Beneath  the  bright  hot  centred  sun. 

No  lands  where  northern  ices  are 
Approach,  or  ever  dare  compare 
With  warm  loves  born  beneath  the  sun, 
The  one  the  cold  white  steady  star, 
The  lifted  shifting  sun  the  one. 
I  grant  you  fond,  I  grant  you  fair, 
I  grant  you  honor,  trust  and  truth, 
And  years  as  beautiful  as  youth, 
And  many  years  beneath  the  sun, 


44  WITH   WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

And  faith  as  fix'd  as  any  star; 

But  all  the  North-land  hath  not  one 

So  warm  of  soul  as  sun-maids  are. 

I  was  but  in  my  boyhood  then, 
I  count  my  fingers  over,  so, 
And  find  it  years  and  years  ago, 
And  I  am  scarcely  yet  of  men, 
But  I  was  tall  and  lithe  and  fair, 
With  rippled  tide  of  yellow  hair, 
And  prone  to  mellowness  of  heart; 
While  she  was  tawny-red  like  wine, 
With  black  hair  boundless  as  the  night, 
As  for  the  rest  I  knew  my  part, 
At  least  was  apt,  and  willing  quite 
To  learn,  to  listen,  and  incline 
To  teacher  warm  and  wise  as  mine. 

O  bright,  bronzed  maidens  of  the  Sun! 
So  fairer  far  to  look  upon 
Than  curtains  of  the  Solomon, 
Or  Kedar's  tents,  or  any  one, 
Or  any  thing  beneath  the  sun! 
What  follow'd  then?   What  has  been  done, 
And  said,  and  writ,  and  read,  and  sung? 


WITH    WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA.  45 

What  will  be  writ  and  read  again, 
While  love  is  life,  and  life  remain? — 
While    maids    will    heed,   and     men    have 
tongue? 

What  follow 'd  then?     But  let  that  pass. 
I  hold  one  picture  in  my  heart, 
Hung  curtain'd,  and  not  any  part 
Of  all  its  dark  tint  ever  has 
Been  look'd  upon  by  any  one 
Beneath  the  broad  all-seeing  sun. 

Love  well  who  will,  love  wrisewho  can, 
But  love,  be  loved,  for  God  is  love; 
Love  pure,  like  cherubim  above; 
Love  maids,  and  hate  not  any  man. 
Sit  as  sat  we  by  orange  tree, 
Beneath  the   broad   bough   and    grape-vine 
Top-tangled  in  the  tropic  shine, 
Close  face  to  face,  close  to  the  sea, 
And  full  of  the  red-centred  sun, 
With  grand  sea-songs  upon  the  soul, 
Roll'd  melody  on  melody, 
Like  echoes  of  deep  organ's  roll, 
And  love,  nor  question  anyone. 


46  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 

If  God  is  love,  is  love  not  God? 
As  high  priests  say,  let  prophets  sing, 
Without  reproach  or  reckoning; 
This  much  I  say,  knees  knit  to  sod, 
And  low  voice  lifted,  questioning. 

Let  hearts  be  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Let  lips  be  luscious  and  blood-red, 
Let  earth  in  gold  be  garmented 
And  tented  in  her  tent  of  blue. 
Let  goodly  rivers  glide  between 
Their  leaning  willow  walls  of  green, 
Let  all  things  be  fill'd  of  the  sun, 
And  full  of  warm  winds  of  the  sea, 
And  I  beneath  my  vine  and  tree 
Take  rest,  nor  war  with  any  one; 
Then  I  will  thank  God  with  full  cause, 
Say  this  is  well,  is  as  it  was. 

Let  lips  be  red,  for  God  has  said 
Love  is  like  one  gold-garmented, 
And  made  them  so  for  such  a  time. 
Therefore  let  lips  be  red,  therefore 
Let  love  be  ripe  in  ruddy  prime, 
Let  hope  beat  high,  let  hearts  be  true, 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  47 

And  you  be  wise  thereat,  and  you 
Drink  deep,  and  ask  not  any  more. 

Let  red  lips  lift,  proud  curl'd  to  kiss, 
And  round  limbs  lean  and  raise  and  reach 
In  love  too  passionate  for  speech, 

Too  full  of  blessedness  and  bliss 
For  anything  but  this  and  this; 
Let  luscious  lips  lean  hot  to  kiss  . 

And  swoon  in  love,  while  all  the  air 
Is  redolent  with  balm  of  trees, 
And  mellow  with  the  song  of  bees,     . 
While  birds  sit  singing  everywhere — 
And  you  will  have  not  any  more 
Than  I  in  boyhood,  by  that  shore 
Of  olives,  had  in  years  of  yore. 

Let  the  unclean  think  things  unclean; 
I  swear  tip-toed,  with  lifted  hands, 
That  we  were  pure  as  sea-wash'd  sands, 
That  not  one  coarse  thought  came  between; 
Believe  or  disbelieve  who  will, 
Unto  the  pure  all  things  are  pure; 
As  for  the  rest,  I  can  endure 
Alike  their  good  will  or  their  ill. 


48  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

Aye!  she  was  rich  in  blood  and  gold — 
More  rich  in  love,  grown  over-bold 
From  its  own  consciousness  of  strength. 
How  warm!     Oh,  not  for  any  cause 
Could  I  declare  how  warm  she  was, 
In  her  brown  beauty  and  hair's  length. 
We  loved  in  the  sufficient  sun, 
We  lived  in  elements  of  fire, 
For  love  is  fire  and  fierce  desire; 
Yet  lived  as  pure  as  priest  and  nun. 

We  lay  slow  rocking  in  the  bay 
In  birch  canoe  beneath  the  crags 
Thick-topp'd  with  palm,  like  sweeping  flags 
Between  us  and  the  burning  day. 
The  alligator's  head  lay  low 
Or  lifted  from  his  rich  rank  fern, 
And  watch'd  us  and  the  tide  by  turn, 
As  we  slow  cradled  to  and  fro. 

And  slow  we  cradled  on  till  night, 
And  told  the  old  tale,  overtold, 
As  misers  in  recounting  gold 
Each  time  to  take  a  new  delight. 
With  her  pure  passion-given  grace 
She  drew  her  warm  self  close  to  me; 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  49 

And  her  two  brown  hands  on  my  knee, 

And  her  two  black  eyes  in  my  face, 

She  then  grew  sad  and  guess'd  at  ill, 

And  in  the  future  seem'd  to  see 

With  woman's  ken  of  prophecy; 

Yet  proffer'd  her  devotion  still. 

And  plaintive  so  she  gave  a  sign, 

A  token  cut  of  virgin  gold, 

That  all  her  tribe  should  ever  hold 

Its  wearer  as  some  one  divine, 

Nor  touch  him  with  a  hostile  hand. 

And  I  in  turn  gave  her  a  blade, 

A  dagger,  worn  as  well  by  maid 

As  man,  in  that  half  lawless  land. 

It  had  a  massive  silver  hilt, 

It  had  a  keen  and  cunning  blade, 

A  gift  by  chief  and  comrades  made 

For  reckless  blood  at  Rivas  split. 

"  Show  this,"  said  I,  "  too  well  'tis  known, 

And  worth  a  hundred  lifted  spears, 

Should  ill  beset  your  sunny  years; 

There  is  not  one  in  Walker's  band, 

But  at  the  sight  of  this  alone, 

Will  reach  a  brave  and  ready  hand, 

And  make  your  right  or  wrong  his  own." 

4 


5<D  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


IV. 


LOVE  while  'tis  day;  night  cometh  soon, 
Wherein  no  man  or  maiden  may; 
Love  in  the  strong  young  prime  of  day; 
Drink  drunk  with  love  in  ripe  red  noon. 
Red  noon  of  love  and  life  and  sun; 
Walk  in  love's  light  as  in  sunshine, 
Drink  in  that  sun  as  drinking  wine, 
Drink  swift,  nor  question  any  one; 
For  loves  change  sure  as  man  or  moon, 
And  wane  like  warm  full  days  of  June. 

Oh  Love,  so  fair  of  promises, 
Bend  here  thy  brow,  blow  here  thy  kiss, 
Bend  here  thy  bow  above  the  storm 
But  once,  if  only  this  once  more. 
Comes  there  no  patient  Christ  to  save, 
Touch  and  re-animate  thy  form 
Long  three  days  dead  and  in  the  grave? 
Spread  here  thy  silken  net  of  jet; 
Since  man  is  false,  since  maids  forget, 
Since  man  must  fall  for  some  sharp  sin, 
Be  thou  the  pit  that  I  fall  in; 


WITH    WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA.  5! 

I  seek  no  safer  fall  than  this. 
Since  man  must  die  for  some  dark  sin, 
Blind  leading  blind,  let  come  to  this, 
And  my  death  crime  be  one  deep  kiss. 


V. 


ILL  comes  disguised  in  many  forms: 

Fair  winds  are  but  a  prophecy 

Of  foulest  winds  full  soon  to  be — 

The  brighter  these,  the  blacker  they; 

The  clearest  night  has  darkest  day, 

And  brightest  days  bring  blackest  storms. 

There  came  reverses  to  our  arms; 

I  saw  the  signal-light's  alarms 

At  night  red-crescenting  the  bay. 

The  foe  pour'd  down  a  flood  next  day 

As  strong  as  tides  when  tides  are  high, 

And  drove  us  bleeding  to  the  sea, 

In  such  wild  haste  of  flight  that  we 

Had  hardly  time  to  arm  and  fly. 

Blown  from  the  shore,  borne  far  a-sea, 
I  lifted  my  two  hands  on  high 


IJ2  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

With  wild  soul  plashing  to  the  sky, 
And  cried,  "O  more  than  crowns  to  me, 
Farewell  at  last  to  love  and  thee!" 
I  walk'd  the  deck,  I  kiss'd  my  hand 
Back  to  the  far  and  fading  shore, 
And  bent  a  knee  as  to  implore, 
Until  the  last  dark  head  of  land 
Slid  down  behind  the  dimpled  sea. 
At  last  I  sank  in  troubled  sleep, 
A  very  child,  rock'd  by  the  deep, 
Sad  questioning  the  fate  of  her 
Before  the  savage  conqueror. 

The  loss  of  comrades,  power,  place, 
A  city  wall'd,  cool  shaded  ways, 
Cost  me  no  care  at  all;  somehow 
I  only  saw  her  sad  brown  face, 
And — I  was  younger  then  than  now. 

Red  flashed  the  sun  across  the  deck, 
Slow  flapp'd  the  idle  sails,  and  slow 
The  black  ship  cradled  to  and  fro. 
Afar  my  city  lay,  a  speck 
Of  white  against  a  line  of  blue; 
Around,  half  lounging  on  the  deck, 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  53 

Some  comrades  chatted  two  by  two. 
I  held  a  new-fill'd  glass  of  wine, 
And  with  the  mate  talk'd  as  in  play 
Of  fierce  events  of  yesterday, 
To  coax  his  light  life  into  mine. 

He  jerked  the  wheel,  as  stow  he  said, 
Low  laughing  with  averted  head, 
And  so,  half  sad:     "You  bet  they'll  fight; 
They  follow'd  in  canim,  canoe, 
A  perfect  fleet,  that  on  the  blue 
Lay  dancing  till  the  mid  of  night. 
Would  you  believe!  one  little  cuss"- 
(He  turn'd  his  stout  head  slow  sidewise, 
And  'neath  his  hat-rim  took  the  skies) — 
"In  petticoats  did  follow  us 
The  livelong  night,  and  at  the  dawn 
Her  boat  lay  rocking  in  the  lee, 
Scarce  one  shprt  pistol-shot  from  me." 
This  said  the  mate,  half  mournfully, 
Then  peck'd  at  us;  for  he  had  drawn, 
By  bright  light  heart  arid  homely  wit, 
A  knot  of  us  around  the  wheel, 
Which  he  stood  whirling  like  a  reel, 
For  the  still  ship  reck'd  not  of  it. 


54  WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 

"  And  where's  she  now?  "  one  careless  said, 
With  eyes  slow  lifting  to  the  brine, 
Swift  swept  the  instant  far  by  mine; 
The  bronzed  mate  listed,  shook  his  head, 
Spirted  a  stream  of  amber  wide 
Across  and  over  the  ship  side, 
Jerk'd  at  the  wheel,  and  slow  replied 

"  She  had  a  dagger  in  her  hand, 
She  rose,  she  raised  it,  tried  to  stand. 
But  fell,  and  so  upset  herself; 
Yet  still  the  poor  brown  savage  elf, 
Each  time  the  long  light  wave  would  toss 
And  lift  her  form  from  out  the  sea, 
Would  shake  a  strange  bright  blade  at  me, 
With  rich  hilt  chased  a  cunning  cross! 
At  last  she  sank,  but  still  the  same 
She  shook  her  dagger  in  the  air, 
As  if  to  still  defy  and  dare, 
And  sinking  seem'd  to  call  your  name." 

I  let  my  wine  glass  crashing  fall, 
I  rush'd  across  the  deck,  and  all 
The  sea  I  swept  and  swept  again, 
With  lifted  hand,  with  eye  and  glass, 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA.  55 

But  all  was  idle  and  in  vain. 
I  saw  a  red-bill'd  sea-gull  pass, 
A  petrel  sweeping  round  and  round, 
I  heard  the  far  white  sea-surf  sound, 
But  no  sign  could  I  hear  or  see 
Of  one  so  more  than  seas  to  me. 

I  cursed  the  ship,  the  shore,  the  sea, 
The  brave  brown  mate,  the  bearded  men; 
I  had  a  fever  then,  and  then 
Ship,  shore  and  sea  were  one  to  me; 
And  weeks  we  on  the  dead  waves  lay, 
And  I  more  truly  dead  than  they. 
At  last  some  rested  on  an  isle; 
The  few  strong-breasted,  with  a  smile, 
Returning  to  the  hostile  shore, 
Scarce  counting  of  the  pain  or  cost, 
Scarce  recking  if  they  won  or  lost; 
They  sought  but  action,  ask'd  no  more; 
They  counted  life  but  as  a  game, 
With  full  per  cent,  against  them,  and 
Staked  all  upon  a  single  hand, 
And  lost  or  won,  content  the  same. 

I  never  saw  my  chief  again, 
I  never  sought  again  the  shore, 


56  WITH   WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

Or  saw  my  white-wall'd  city  more. 
I  could  not  bear  the  more  than  pain 
At  sight  of  blossom'd  orange  trees 
Or  blended  song  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  sweeping  shadows  of  the  palm 
Or  spicy  breath  of  bay  and  balm. 
And,  striving  to  forget  the  while, 
I  wander'd  through  the  dreary  isle, 
Here  black  with  juniper,  and  there 
Made  white  with  goats  in  shaggy  coats, 
The  only  things  that  anywhere 
We  found  with  life  in  all  the  land, 
Save  birds  that  ran  long-bill'd  and  brown, 
Long  legg'd  and  still  as  shadows  are, 
Like  dancing  shadows  up  and  down 
The  sea-rim  on  the  swelt'ring  sand. 

The  warm  sea  laid  his  dimpled  face, 
With  all  his  white  locks  smoothed  in  place, 
As  if  asleep  against  the  land; 
Great  turtles  slept  upon  his  breast, 
As  thick  as  eggs  in  any  nest; 
I  could  have  touch'd  them  with  my  hand. 

VI. 

I  WOULD  some  things  were  dead  and  hid, 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  57 

Well  dead  and  buried  deep  as  hell, 
With  recollection  dead  as  well, 
And  resurrection  God-forbid. 
They  irk  me  with  their  weary  spell 
Of  fascination,  eye  to  eye, 
And  hot  mesmeric  serpent  hiss, 
Through  all  the  dull  eternal  days. 
Let  them  turn  by,  go  on  their  ways, 
Let  them  depart  or  let  me  die; 
For  life  is  but  a  beggar's  lie, 
And  as  for  death,  I  grin  at  it; 
I  do  not  care  one  whiff  or  whit 
Whether  it  be  or  that  or  this. 

I  give  my  hand;  the  world  is  wide; 
Then  farewell  memories  of  yore, 
Between  us  let  strife  be  no  more; 
Turn  as  you  choose  to  either  side; 
Say,  Fare-you-well,  shake  hands  and  say — 
Speak  loud,  and  say  with  stately  grace, 
Hand  clutching  hand,  face  bent  to  face — 
Farewell  forever  and  a  day. 

O  passion-toss'd  and  bleeding  past, 
Part  now,  part  well,  part  wide  apart, 


58  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

As  ever  ships  on  ocean  slid 

Down,  down  the  sea,  hull,  sail  and  mast: 

And  in  the  album  of  my  heart 

Let  hide  the  pictures  of  your  face, 

With  other  pictures  in  their  place, 

Slid  over  like  a  coffin's  lid. 


VII. 

THE  days  and  grass  grow  long  together; 
They  now  fell  short  and  crisp  again, 
And  all  the  fair  face  of  the  main 
Grew  dark  and  wrinkled  as  the  weather. 
Through  all  the  summer  sun's  decline 
Fell  news  of  triumphs  and  defeats, 
Of  hard  advances,  hot  retreats — 
Then  days  and  days  and  not  a  line. 

At  last  one  night  they  came.     I  knew 
Ere  yet  the  boat  had  touch'd  the  land 
That  all  was  lost;  they  were  so  few 
I  near  could  count  them  on  one  hand; 
But  he.the  leader, led  no  more. 
The  proud  chief  still  disdain'd  to  fly, 


WITH    WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA.  59 

But  like  one  wreck'd,  clung  to  the  shore, 
And  struggled  on,  and  struggling  fell 
From  power  to  a  prison-cell, 
And  only  left  that  cell  to  die. 

My  recollection,  like  a  ghost, 
Goes  from  this  sea  to  that  sea-side, 
Goes  and  returns  as  turns  the  tide, 
Then  turns  again  unto  the  coast. 
I  know  not  which  I  mourn  the  most, 
My  chief  or  my  unwedded  wife. 
The  one  was  as  the  lordly  sun, 
To  joy  in,  bask  in,  and  admire; 
The  peaceful  moon  was  as  the  one, 
To  love,  to  look  to,  and  desire; 
And  both  a  part  of  my  young  life. 


VIII. 

YEARS  after,  shelter'd  from  the  sun 
Beneath  a  Sacramento  bay, 
A  black  Muchacho  by  me  lay 
Along  the  long  grass  crisp  and  dun, 
His  brown  mule  browsing  by  his  side. 
And  told  with  all  a  Peon's  pride 


6O  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

How  he  once  foughtjhow  long  and  well, 
Broad  breast  to  breast,  red  hand  to  hand. 
Against  a  foe  for  his  fair  land, 
And  how  the  fierce  invader  fell; 
And,  artless,  told  me  how  he  died. 

He  walked  out  from  the  prison-wall 
Dress'd  like  some  prince  for  a  parade, 
And  made  no  note  of  man  or  maid, 
But  gazed  out  calmly  over  all. 
He  look'd  far  off,  half  paused,  and  then 
Above  the  mottled  sea  of  men 
He  kiss'd  his  thin  hand  to  the  sun; 
Then  smiled  so  proudly  none  had  known 
But  he  was  stepping  to  a  throne, 
Yet  took  no  note  of  any  one. 

A  nude  brown  beggar  Peon  child, 
Encouraged  as  the  captive  smiled, 
Look'd  up,  half  scared,  half  pitying; 
He  stopp'd,  he  caught  it  from  the  sands, 
Put  bright  coins  in  its  two  brown  hands, 
Then  strode  on  like  another  king. 

Two  deep,  a  musket's  length,  they  stood 


WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA.  6 1 

A-front,  in  sandals,  nude,  and  dun 

As  death  and  darkness  wove  in  one, 

Their  thick  lips  thirsting  for  his  blood. 

He  took  their  black  hands  one  by  one, 

And,  smiling  with  a  patient  grace, 

Forgave  them  all  and  took  his  place. 

He  bared  his  broad  brow  to  the  sun, 

Gave  one  long,  last  look  to  the  sky, 

The  white  wing'd  clouds  that  hurried  by, 

The  olive  hills  in  orange  hue; 

A  last  list  to  the  cockatoo 

That  hung  by  beak  from  cocoa-bough 

Hard  by,    and    hung   and   sung    as   though 

He  never  was  to  sing  again, 

Hung  all  red-crown'd  and  robed  in  green, 

With  belts  of  gold  and  blue  between. — 

A  bow,  a  touch  of  heart,  a  pall 
Of  purple  smoke,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  raiment  rent,  and  blood, 
A  face  in  dust  and — that  was  all. 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king; 
Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing 
In  name,  contempt  or  hate  can  bring: 


62  WITH    WALKER     IN    NICARAGUA. 

So  much  the  leaded  dice  of  war 
Do  make  or  mar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 
In  all  disgrace;  say  of  the  dead 
His  heart  was  black,   his  hands  were  red- 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied; 
Gloat  over  it  all  undenied. 
I  simply  say  he  was  my  friend 
When  strong  of  hand  and  fair  of  fame: 
Dead  and  disgraced,  I  stand  the  same 
To  him,  and  so  shall  to  the  end. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Recall'd  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levell'd  sand, 
Unshelter'd  from  the  tropic  sun, 
And  now  of  all  he  knew  not  one 
Will  speak  him  fair  in  that  far  land. 
Perhaps  'twas  this  that  made  me  seek, 


WITH   WALKER     IN     NICARAGUA.  63 

Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide; 
A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  hand, 
Hard  by  a  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quiver'd  like  a  willow  wand; 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf, 
Perch'd  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hang, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sang 
A  low,  sad  song  of  temper'd  grief. 

No  sod, no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone 
But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen; 
It  stood  in  sacred  sands  alone, 
Flat-palm'd  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears; 
One  bloom  of  crimson  crown'd  its  head, 
A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 

In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipp'd  and  pearly  red; 
I  1'aid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 


64  WITH    WALKER    IN     NICARAGUA. 

For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell!  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee! 

I  said  some  things,  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whisper'd  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more: 

1  turn'd  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

~r~yOOM.'  Room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be  free, 
•t  V      To  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  -with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  path-way  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room!  Room  to  be  free  -where  the  -white-border 'd  sta 
Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he. 
Where  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouringon  like  the  tide  of  a  storm-driven  main. 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest;  and  unquestioned  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America!  Seas  of  wild  lands! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam. 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 
LONDON,  1871. 

RUN?  Now  you  bet  you;  I  rather  guess  so! 
But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  Pache, 

boy,  whoa. 

No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he's  blind,  badger  blind,  and   it  happen'd 
this  wise: 


"  We  lay     in  the  grasses  and   the   sunburnt 
clover 

5  65 


66  KIT  CAESOS'S  warn 

Tfiafr  spread  on  tfre  ground  Eke  a.  great  brown 

Northward  and  southwards  and  west  a«d  away 
To  die  Brazos,  to  where  our  Lodges  Lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  level  of  bco-wm. 
We  were  waiting  the  curtains  of  rciigfcft:  to  > 

down 

To  cover  us  over  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  lodc 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  rids  of 


"  We  lounged  in  the  grasses  —  her  eyes 

name, 
And  her  hands  on  my  fcneeT  and  her  hair   was 

as  wine 
In  rts  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all 

•war 

Her  bosom  wine-red,  and  pressed  never  by 
Her  touch  was    as   warm   as  the  tinge  o-f 

clover 

Burn't  brown  as  it  reach'd  to  the  kiss  of  the 
Her  words  they  were  low  as   the  lute-throated 


And  as  laden  with    love  as  the  heart  what 
beats 


•      V       .      Lr      '     - 


- 


:-    -_:   :    - 
.-  -.-    :-: 


WBJT       •  ^          —  •• 

•  •  t    ..L;      :  v     .: 


: 

• ;- .  - 

-  -:: 


:  --: 

-  L 

-     L 


.-.r     ':    :.:•:-    I 


.-.:-    :    u: 


:--         -    .: 


68  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

1  Pull,  pull  in  yourlassoes.and  bridle  to  steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for    life    you    would 

speed. 
Yea,  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must 

ride  ! 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 
And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving    fast  on  us 

three 
As  a  hurricane   comes,  crushing  palms  in  his 

ire.' 

"We  drew    in  the  lassoes,  seized  saddle  and 

rein, 
Threw  them  on,  cinched    them    on,    cinched 

them  over  again, 
And  again  drew  the  girth;    threw   robes  in  a 

breath. 
And  bared  to  the  skin,  sprang  all  haste  to  the 

horse — 

Sprang  bare  as  when  born,  as  when   new  from 
the  hand 

Of  God — without  speech  or  one  word  of  com- 
mand. 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE.         .  69 

Turn'd  head  to  the   Brazos  in    red    race  with 

death, 
Turn'd  head  to  the  Brazos  with*  breath    in    the 

hair; 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his 

course, 
Turn'd  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the 

air 

Like  the  surge  of  a  sea,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye, 
Of  a  red  wall  of  flame  reaching  up  to  the  sky. 
Stretching   fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling 

sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping 

free 
And  afar  from  the  desert    blew    hollow  and 

hoarse. 

"Not  a  word,  not   a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let 

fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low 

call 

Of  love-note  or  courage;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 
So  steady,  so  still,  lean'd  we  low  to  the  mane, 
With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the 

rein. 


70  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode   we   nose  and 

reach'd  nose, 
Reaching  long*  breathing  loud,  as  a  creviced 

wind  blows: 
We  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a 

prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in 

the  air, 
And    the    chance    was  as  one  to  a  thousand 

for  all. 

"Grey  nose  to  grey  nose,  and  each  steady 
mustang 

Stretch'd  neck  and  stretch'd  nerve  till  the  arid 
earth  rang, 

And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup 
and  the  neck 

Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven 
deck. 

Twenty  miles!. ..  .thirty  miles!. — a  dim  dis- 
tant speck. . . . 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in 
sight! 

And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 

I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look'd  to  my  right — 


KIT    CARSON  S    RIDE.  /I 

But  Revels  was  gone;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger;  I  saw  his  head 

drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast 

stooping 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  to  that  red  sea  of  flame. 
He  rode  neck  to  neck  with  a  buffalo  bull, 
That  made  the  earth  shake  where  he  came  in 

his  course. 
'Twas  a  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane 

full 

Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  hoarse. 
His  keen,  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of 

his  mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked 

through, 
And  Revels  was  gone,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

"  I  look'd  to  my  left  then — and  nose,  neck, 
and  shoulder 


72  KIT   CARSON  S    RIDE. 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs, 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her 

hair 

Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold 

her, 

And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  falter'd,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's 

swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  he  fell  and  was 

gone 
As  I  reach'd  through  the  flame  and  I  bore  her 

still  on. 

"Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  us  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts  and  a  sound  as  of 

thunder — 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward 

and  over, 
As  the  passionate  flame  reach'd  round  them, 

and  wove  her 
Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kiss'd  hot  till  they 

died — 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE.  73 

Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone — 
And  into  the  Brazos  I  rode  all  alone- 
All  alone,  with  my  love  on  a  horse  long-limb'd, 
And  blinded  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 
Till  the  tide  block'd  up  and  the  swift  stream 

brimm'd 
With   my  bride  on  my  breast   we   struck  the 

far  side. 

Yes,  there  sits  my  bride  in  the  shade  of  her 

palm; 

Ay,  still  we  are  lovers,  if  that's  aught  to  you . . 
She's  a  tawny,  wild  woman,  but  as  true,  sir,  as 

true 
As  yon  sun  in  heaven.     And  I — I  am   what  I       < 

am." 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 


f  I  \HE  hills  were  brown,  the  heavens  were  blue. 
A  woodpecker  pounded  a  pine-top  shell. 

While  a  partridge  ivhistled  the  whole  day  through 
For  a  rabbit  to  dance  in  the  chapparal, 
And  a  grey  grouse  drummed,  "All's  well,  all's  well." 


I. 

WRINKLED  and  brown  as  a  bag  of  leather, 
A  squaw  sits  moaning  long  and  low. 
Yesterday  she  was  a  wife  and  mother, 
To-day  she  is  rocking  her  to  and  fro, 
A  childless  widow,  in  weeds  and  woe. 

An  Indian  sits  in  a  rocky  cavern 
Whetting  a  flint  in  an  arrow  head; 
His  children  are  moving  as  still  as  shadows, 
His  squaw  is  moulding  some  balls  of  lead, 
With  round  face  painted  all  battle-red- 
An  Indian  sits  in  a  black-jack  jungle, 
Where  a  grizzly  bear  has  rear'd  her  young, 
Whetting  a  flint  on  a  granite  boulder. 
His  quiver  is  over  his  brown  back  hung — 
His  face  is  streak'd  and  his  bow  is  strung 

74 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS.  75 

An  Indian  hangs  from  a  cliff  of  granite, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  built  in  the  air, 
Looking  away  to  the  east,  and  watching 
The  smoke  of  the  cabins  curling  there, 
And  eagle's  feathers  are  in  his  hair. 

In  belt  of  wampum,  in  battle  fashion, 

An  Indian  watches  with  wild  desire. 

He  is  red  with  paint,  he  is  black  with  passion; 

And  grand  as  a  god  in  his  savage  ire, 

He  leans  and  listens  till  stars  are  a-fire. 

All  sombre  and  sullen  and  sad,  a  chieftain 
Now  looks  from  the  mountain  far  into  the  sea. 
Just  before  him  beat  in  the  white  billows, 
Just  behind  him  the  toppled  tall  tree 
And  chopping  white  woodmen,  knee  buckled 
to  knee. 


II. 


ALL  together,  all  in  council, 

In  a  canon  wall'd  so  high 

That  no  thing  could  ever  reach  them 


76  THE   LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

Save  some  stars  dropp'd  from  the  sky, 
And  the  brown  bats  sweeping  by: 

Tawny  chieftains  thin  and  wiry, 
Wise  as  brief,  and  brief  as  bold; 
Chieftains  young  and  fierce  and  fiery, 
Chieftains  stately  tall,  that  told 
Their  counsellings  like  kings  of  old. 

Flamed  the  council-fire  brighter, 
Flash'd  black  eyes  like  diamond  beads. 
When  a  woman  told  her  sorrows, 
While  a  warrior  told  his  deeds, 
And  a  widow  tore  her  weeds. 

Then  was  lit  the  pipe  of  council 
That  their  fathers  smoked  of  old, 
With  its  stem  of  manzinnetta, 
And  its  bowl  of  quartz  and  gold, 
And  traditions  manifold. 

Lo!  from  lip  to  lip  in  silence 
Burn'd  it  round  the  circle  red, 
Like  an  evil  star  slow  passing 
(Sign  of  battles  and  blood  shed) 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

Round  the  heavens  overhead. 
Then  the  silence  deep  was  broken 
By  the  thunder  rolling  far, 
As  gods  muttering  in  anger, 
Or  the  bloody  battle-car 
Of  a  Christian  king  at  war. 

"'Tis  the  spirits  of  my  Fathers 
Mutt'ring  vengeance  in  the  skies; 
And  the  flashing  of  the  lightning 
Is  the  anger  of  their  eyes, 
Bidding  us  in  battle  rise," 

Cried  the  war-chief,  now  up-rising, 
Naked  all  above  the  waist, 
While  a  belt  of  shells  and  silver 
Held  his  tamoos  to  its  place, 
And  the  war-paint  streak'd  his  face. 

Women  melted  from  the  council, 
Boys  crept  backward  out  of  sight, 
Till  alone  a  wall  of  warriors 
In  their  paint  and  battle-plight 
Sat  reflecting  back  the  light. 


78  THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

"O  my  Fathers  in  the  storm-cloud!" 
(Red  arms  tossing  to  the  skies, 
While  the  massive  walls  of  granite 
Seem'd  to  shrink  to  half  their  size, 
And  to  mutter  strange  replies)— 

"Soon  we  come,  O  angry  Fathers, 
Down  the  darkness  you  have  cross'd: 
Speak  for  hunting-grounds  there  for  us; 
Those  you  left  us  we  have  lost — 
Gone  like  blossoms  in  a  frost: 

"Warriors!"  (and  his  arms  fell  folded 
On  his  tawny  swelling  breast, 
While  his  voice,  now  low  and  plaintive 
As  the  waves  in  their  unrest, 
Touching  tenderness  confess'd), 

"Where  is  Wrotto,  wise  of  counsel, 
Yesterday  here  in  his  place? 
A  brave  lies  dead  down  in  the  valley, 
Last  brave  of  his  line  and  race, 
And  a  Ghost  sits  on  his  face. 

"Where  his  boy  the  tender-hearted, 
With  his  mother  yestermorn? 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS.  79 

Lo!  a  wigwam  door  is  darken'd, 
And  a  mother  mourns  forlorn, 
With  her  long  locks  toss'd  and  torn. 

"Lo!  our  daughters  have  been  gather'd 
From  among  us  by  the«foe, 
Like  the  lilies  they  once  gather'd 
In  the  spring-time  all  aglow 
From  the  banks  of  living  snow 

"Through  the  land  where  we  for  ages 
Laid  the  bravest,  'dearest  dead, 
Grinds  the  savage  white-man's  ploughshare 
Grinding  sires'  bones  for  bread — 
We  shall  give  them  blood  instead. 

"  I  saw  white  skulls  in  a  furrow, 
And  around  the  cursed  ploughshare 
Clung  the  flesh  of  my  own  children. 
And  my  mother's  tangled  hair 
Trailed  along  the  furrow  there. 

"  Warriors!  braves!  I  cry  for  vengeance  ! 
And  the  dim  ghosts  of  the  dead 
Unavenged  do  wail  and  shiver 


8O  THE   LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

In  the  storm  cloud  overhead, 

And  shoot  arrows  battle-red." 

Then  he  ceased,  and  sat  among  them, 

With  his  long  locks  backward  strown; 

They  as  mute  as  men  of  marble, 

He  a  king  upon  the  throne, 

And  as  still  as  polished  stone. 

Then  uprose  the  war-chief's  daughter, 
Taller  than  the  tassell'd  corn, 
Sweeter  than  the  kiss  of  morning, 
Sad  as  some  sweet  star  of  morn, 
Half  defiant,  half  forlorn. 

Robed  in  skins  of  striped  panther 
Lifting  loosely  to  the  air, 
With  a  face  a  shade  of  sorrow 
And  black  eyes  that  said,  Beware! 
Nestled  in  a  storm  of  hair; 

With  her  striped  robes  around  her, 
Fasten'd  by  an  eagle's  beak, 
Stood  she  by  the  stately  chieftain, 
Proud  and. pure  as  Shasta's  peak, 
As  she  ventured  thus  to  speak: 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTA^.  8 1 

"  Must  the  tomahawk  of  battle 
-Be  unburied  where  it  lies, 
O,  last  war-chief  of  Taschastas? 
Must  the  smoke  of  battle  rise 
Like  a  storm  cloud  in  the  skies? 

"True,  some  wretch  has  laid  a  brother 
With  his  swift  feet  to  the  sun, 
But  because  one  bough  is  broken, 
Must  the  broad  oak  be  undone? 
All  the  red- wood  fell'd  as  one? 

"True,  the  braves  have  faded,  wasted 
Like  ripe  blossoms  in  the  rain, 
But  when  we  have  spent  the  arrows, 
Do  we  twang  the  string  in  vain, 
And  then  snap  the  bow  in  twain?" 

Like  a  vessel  in  a  tempest 
Shook  the  warrior,  wild  and  grim, 
As  he  gazed  out  in  the  midnight, 
As  to  things  that  beckon'd  him, 
And  his  eyes  were  moist  and  dim. 

Then  he  turn'd,  and  to  his  bosom 

6 


82  THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

Battle-scarr'd,  and  strong  as  brass, 
Tenderly  the  warrior  press'd  her 
As  if  she  were  made  of  glass, 
Murmuring,  "Alas!  alas! 

"Loua  Ellah!  Spotted  Lily! 
Streaks  of  blood  shall  be  the  sign, 
On  their  cursed  and  mystic  pages, 
Representing  me  and  mine! 
By  Tonatiu's  fiery  shrine! 

"When  the  grass  shall  grow  untrodden 
In  my  war-path,  and  the  plough 
Shall  be  grinding  through  this  canon 
Where  my  braves  are  gather'd  now, 
Still  shall  they  record  this  vow. 

"War  and  vengeance!  rise,  my  warriors, 
Rise  and  shout  the  battle-sign, 
Ye  who  love  revenge  and  glory! 
Ye  for  peace,  in  silence  pine, 
And  no  more  be  braves  of  mine." 

Then  the  war-yell  roll'd  and  echoed 
As  they  started  from  the  ground, 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS.  83 

Till  an  eagle  from  his  cedar 
Starting  answer'd  back  the  sound, 
And  flew  circling  round  and  round. 

"Enough,  enough,  my  kingly  father!" 
And  the  glory  of  her  eyes 
Flash'd  the  valor  and  the  passion 
That  may  sleep  but  never  dies, 
As  she  proudly  thus  replies: 

"Shall  the  red-wood  be  a  willow, 
Pliant  and  as  little  worth? 
It  shall  stand  the  king  of  forests, 
Or  its  fall  shall  shake  the  earth, 
Desolating  heart  and  hearth!" 


in. 


FROM  cold  east  shore  to  warm  west  sea 
The  red  men  follow'd  the  red  sun, 
And  faint  and  failing  fast  as  he, 
Felt,  sure  as  his,  their  race  was  run. 


84  THE   LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

This  ancient  tribe,  press'd  to  the  wave, 

There  fain  had  slept  a  patient  slave, 

And  died  out  as  red  embers  die 

From  flames  that  once  leapt  hot  and  high; 

But,  roused  to  anger,  half  arose 

Around  that  chief,  a  sudden  flood, 

At  hot  and  hungry  cry  for  blood; 

Half  drowsy  shook  a  feeble  hand, 

Then  sank  back  in  a  tame  repose, 

And  left  him  to  his  fate  and  foes, 

A  stately  wreck  upon  the  strand. 

His  eye  was  like  the  lightning's  wing, 

His  voice  was  like  a  rushing  flood; 

He  boasted  Montezuma's  blood, 

And  when  a  captive  bound  he  stood 

His  presence  look'd  the  perfect  king. 

'Twas  held  at  first  that  he  should  die: 
I  never  knew  the  reason  why 
A  milder  council  did  prevail, 
Save  that  we  shrank  from  blood,  and  save 
That  brave  men  do  respect  the  brave. 
Down  sea  sometimes  there  was  a  sail, 
And  far  at  sea,  they  said,  an  isle, 
And  he  was  sentenced  to  exile, 


THE   LAST   TASCHASTAS.  85 

In  open  boat  upon  the  sea 

To  go  the  instant  on  the  main, 

And  never  under  penalty 

Of  death,  to  touch  the  shore  again. 

A  troop  of  bearded  buckskinn'd  men 

Bore  him  hard-hurried  to  the  wave, 

Placed  him  swift  in  the  boat;  and  when 

Swift  pushing  to  the  bristling  sea, 

His  daughter  rush'd  down  suddenly, 

Threw  him  his  bow,  leapt  from  the  shore 

Into  the  boat  beside  the  brave, 

And  sat  her  down  and  seized  the  oar, 

And  never  question'd,  made  replies, 

Or  moved  her  lips,  or  raised  her  eyes. 

His  breast  was  like  a  gate  of  brass, 
His  brow  was  like  a  gather'd  storm; 
There  is  no  chisell'd  stone  that  has 
So  stately  and  complete  a  form, 
In  sinew,  arm,  and  every  part, 
In  all  the  galleries  of  art. 

Grey,  bronzed,  and  naked  to  the  waist, 
He  stood  half  halting  in  the  prow, 
With  quiver  bare  and  idle  bow. 


86  THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

His  daughter  sat  with  her  sad  face 
Bent  on  the  wave,  with  her  two  hands 
Held  tightly  to  the  dripping  oar; 
And  as  she  sat,  her  dimpled  knee 
Bent  lithe  as  wand  of  willow  tree, 
So  round  and  full,  so  rich  and  free, 
That  no  one  would  have  ever  known 
That  it  had  either  joint  or  bone. 
The  warm  sea  fondled  with  the  shore, 
And  laid  his  white  face  on  the  sands. 

Her  eyes  were  black,  her  face  was  brown, 
Her  breasts  were  bare  and  there  fell  down 
Such  wealth  of  hair,  it  almost  hid 
The  two,  in  its  rich  jetty  fold — 
Which  I  had  sometime  fain  forbid, 
They  were  so  richer,  fuller  far 
Than  any  polish'd  bronzes  are, 
And  richer  hued  than  any  gold. 
On  her  brown  arms  and  her  brown  hands 
Were  hoops  of  gold  and  golden  bands, 
Rough  hammer'd  from  the  virgin  ore, 
So  heavy,  they  could  hold  no  more.  » 

I  wonder  now,  I  wonder'd  then, 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS.  8/ 

That  men  who  fear'd  not  gods  nor  men 

Laid  no  rude  hand  at  all  on  her, 

I  think  she  had  a  dagger  slid 

Down  in  her  silver'd  wampum  belt; 

It  might  have  been,  instead  of  hilt, 

A  flashing  diamond  hurry-hid 

That  I  beheld — I  could  not  know 

For  certain,  we  did  hasten  so; 

And  I  know  now  less  sure  than  then, 

Deeds  strangle  memories  of  deeds, 

Red  blossoms  wither,  choked  with  weeds, 

And  floods  drown  memories  of  men. 

Some  things  have  happened  since — and  then 

This  happen'd  years  and  years  ago. 

"  Go,  go! "  the  captain  cried,  and  smote 
With  sword  and  boot  the  swaying  boat, 
Until  it  quiver'd  as  at  sea 
And  brought  the  old  chief  to  his  knee. 
He  turn'd  his  face,  and  turning  rose 
With  hand  raised  fiercely  to  his  foes: 
"Yes,  we  will  go,  last  of  my  race, 
Push'd  by  the  robbers  ruthlessly 
Into  the  hollows  of  the  sea, 
From  this  the  last,  last  resting-place. 


88  THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

Tradition's  of  my  Fathers  say 

A  feeble  few  reach'd  for  the  land, 

And  we  reach'd  them  a  welcome  hand, 

Of  old,  upon  another  shore; 

Now  they  are  strong,  we  weak  as  they, 

And  they  have  driven  us  before 

Their  faces,  from  that  sea  to  this: 

Then  marvel  not  if  we  have  sped 

Sometime  an  arrow  as  we  fled, 

So  keener  than  a  serpent's  kiss." 

He  turn'd  a  time  unto  the  sun 
That  lay  half  hidden  in  the  sea, 
As  in  his  hollows  rock'd  asleep, 
All  trembled  and  breathed  heavily; 
Then  arch'd  his  arm,  as  you  have  done, 
For  sharp  masts  piercing  through  the  deep. 
No  shore  or  tall  ship  met  the  eye, 
Or  isle,  or  sail,  or  anything, 
Save  white  sea-gulls  on  dipping  wing, 
And  mobile  sea  and  molten  sky. 

"Farewell! — push     seaward,     child!'1    he 

cried, 
And  quick  the  paddle-strokes  replied. 


THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS.  89 

Like  lightning  from  the  panther-skin, 
That  bound  his  loins  round  about 
He  snatch'd  a  poison'd  arrow  out, 
That  like  a  snake  lay  hid  within, 
And  twang'd  his  bow.     The  captain  fell 
Prone  on  his  face,  and  such  a  yell 
Of  triumph  from  that  savage  rose 
As  man  may  never  hear  again. 
He  stood  as  standing  on  the  main, 
The  topmast  main,  in  proud  repose, 
And  shook  his  clench'd  fist  at  his  foes, 
And  call'd,  and  cursed  them  every  one. 
He  heeded  not  the  shouts  and  shot 
That  follow'd  him,  but  grand  and  grim 
Stood  up  against  the  level  sun; 
And.  standing  so,  seem'd  in  his  ire 
So  grander  than  a  leaping  fire. 

And  when  the  sun  had  left  the  sea, 
That  laves  Abrep,  and  Blanco  laves, 
And  left  the  land  to  death  and  me, 
The  only  thing  that  I-  could  see 
Was,  ever  as  the  light  boat  lay 
High  lifted  on  the  white-back'd  waves, 
A  head  as  grey  and  toss'd  as  they. 


O  THE    LAST   TASCHASTAS. 

We  raised  the  dead,  and  from  his  hands 
Pick'd  out  some  shells,  clutch'd  as  he  lay 
And  two  by  two  bore  him  away, 
And  wiped  his  lips  of  blood  and  sands. 
We  bent  and  scoop'd  a  shallow  home, 
And  laid  him  warm-wet  in  his  blood, 
Just  as  the  lifted  tide  a-flood- 
Came  charging  in  with  mouth  a-foam: 
And  as  we  turn'd,  the  sensate  thing 
Reached  up.lick'd  out  its  foamy  tongue, 
Lick'd  out  its  tongue  and  tasted  blood; 
The  white  lips  to  the  red  earth  clung 
An  instant,  and  then  loosening 
All  hold  just  like  a  living  thing, 
Drew  back  sad-voiced  and  shuddering, 
All  stained  with  blood,  a  striped  flood. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


at  shroud  the  to-morrow, 
Glistsfrom  the  life  that's  within. 
Traces  of  pain  and  of  sorrow. 

And  maybe  a  trace  of  sin, 
Reachingsfor  God  in  the  darkness. 
And  for — what  should  have  been. 


Stains  from  the  gall  and  the  wormwood. 

Memories  bitter  like  myrrh, 
A  sad,  brown  face  in  a  fir-wood. 

Blotches  of  heart's  blood  here, 
But  never  the  sound  of  the  wailing. 

Never  the  sign  of  a  tear. 


Thou  Italy  of  the  Occident! 

Land  of  flowers  and  summer  climes. 

Of  holy  priests  and  horrid  crimes; 

Land  of  the  cactus  and  sweet  cocoa ; 

Richer  than  all  the  Orient 

In  gold  and  glory,  in  want  and  woe 

In  self-denial,  in  days  miispent. 

In  truth  and  treason,  in  good  and  guilt. 

In  ivied  ruins  and  altars  low. 

In  batter' 'd  walls  and  blood  misspilt ; 

Glorious,  gory  Mexico! 


91 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


WHERE  mountains  repose  in  their  blue- 
ness, 

Where  the  sun  first  lands  in  his  newness, 
And  marshals  his  beams  and  his  lances, 
Ere  down  to  the  vale  he  advances 
With  visor  erect,  and  rides  swiftly 
On  the  terrible  night  in  his  way, 
And  slays  him,  and,  daring  and  deftly, 
Hews  the  beautiful  day 
With  his  flashing  sword  of  silver, — 
Lay  nestled  the  town  of  Renalda, 
Far  famed  for  its  famous  Alcalde, 
The  iron  judge  of  the  mountain  mine, 
With  the  heart  like  the  heart  of  woman, 
And  humanity  more  than  human; — 
Far  famed  for  its  maids  and  silver, 
Rich  mines  and  its  mountain  wine. 

The  feast  was  full,  and  the  guests  afire, 
The  shaven  priest  and  the  portly  squire, 
The  solemn  judge  and  the  smiling  dandy, 
The  duke  and  the  don  and  the  commandante, 
All  sat,  and  shouted  or  sang  divine, 
Sailing  in  one  great  sea  of  wine; 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.     93 

Till  roused,  red-crested  knight  Chanticleer 
Answer'd  and  echo'd  their  song  and  cheer. 

They  boasted  of  broil,  encounter,  and  battle, 
They  boasted  of  maidens  most  cleverly  won, 
Boasted  of  duels  most  valiantly  done, 
Of  leagues  of  land  and  of  herds  of  cattle, 
These  men  at  the  feast  up  in  fair  Renalda. 
All  boasted  but  one,  the  calm  Alcalde, 
Though  hard  they  press'd  from  first  of  the  feast, 
Press'd  commandant^,  press'd  poet  and  priest, 
And  steadily  still  the  attorney  press'd, 
With  lifted  glass  and  his  face  aglow, 
Heedless  of  host  and.careless  of  guest — 
"  A  tale!  the  tale  of  your  life,  so  ho! 
For  not  one  man  in  all  Mexico 
Can  trace  your  history  a  half  decade." 
A  hand  on  the  rude  one's  lips  was  laid: 
"Sacred,  my  son,"  a  priest  went  on, 
"  Sacred  the  secrets  of  every  one, 
Inviolate  as  an  altar-stone. 
But  what  in  the  life  of  one  who  must 
Have  lived  a  life  that  is  half  divine — 
Have  been  so  pure  to  be  so  just, 
What  can  there  be,  O  advocate, 


94     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

In  the  life  of  one  so  desolate 

Of  luck  with  matron,  or  love  with  maid, 

Midnight  revel  or  escapade, 

To  stir  the  wonder  of  men  at  wine? 

But  should  the  Alcalde  choose,  you  know,"- 

(And  here  his  voice  fell  soft  and  low, 

As  he  set  his  wine-horn  in  its  place, 

And  look'd  in  the  judge's  careworn  face)— 

"  To  weave  us  a  tale  that  points  a  moral, 

Out  of  his  vivid  imagination, 

Of  lass  or  of  love,  or  lover's  quarrel, 

Naught  of  his  fame  or  name  or  station 

Shall  lose  in  luster  by  its  relation." 

Softly  the  judge  set  down  his  horn, 
Kindly  look'd  on  the  priests  all  shorn, 
And  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  the  advocate 
With  a  touch  of  pity,  but  none  of  hate; 
Then  look'd  down  into  the  brimming  horn, 
Half  defiant  and  half  forlorn. 

Was  it  a  tear?    Was  it  a  sigh? 
Was  it  a  glance  of  the  priest's  black  eye? 
Or  was  it  the  drunken  revel-cry 
That  smote  the  rock  of  his  frozen  heart 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.     95 

And  forced  his  pallid  lips  apart? 

Or  was  it  the  weakness  like  to  woman 

Yearning  for  sympathy 

Through  the  dark  years, 

Spurning  the  secrecy, 

Burning  for  tears, 

Proving  him  human, — 

As  he  said  to  the  men  of  the  silver  mine, 

With  their  eyes  held  up  as  to  one  divine, 

With  his  eyes  held  down  to  his  untouch'd  wine 


"  It   might   have     been    where     moonbeams 

kneel 

At  night  beside  some  rugged  steep; 
It  might  have  been  where  breakers  reel, 
Or  mild  waves  cradle  men  to  sleep; 
It  might  have  been  in  peaceful  life, 
Or  mad  tumult  and  storm  and  strife, 
I  drew  my  breath;  it  matters  not. 
A  silver'd  head,  a  sweetest  cot, 
A  sea  of  tamarack  and  pine, 
A  peaceful  stream,  a  balmy  clime, 
A  cloudless  sky,  a  sister's  smile, 
A  mother's  love  that  sturdy  Time 
Has  strengthen'd  as  he  strengthens  wine, 


96     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Are  mine,  are  with  me  all  the  while, 
Are  hung  in  memory's  sounding  halls, 
Are  graven  on  her  glowing  walls. 
But  rage,  nor  rack,  nor  wrath  of  man, 
Nor  prayer  of  priest,  nor  price,  nor  ban 
Can  wring  from    me  their  place  or  name, 
Or  why,  or  when,  or  whence  I  came; 
Or  why  I  left  that  childhood  home, 
A  child  of  form  yet  old  of  soul, 
And  sought  the  wilds  where  tempests  roll 
Round  mountains  white  as  driven  foam. 

"  Mistaken  and  misunderstood, 
I  sought  a  deeper  wild  and  wood, 
A  girlish  form  and  a  childish  face, 
A  wild  waif  drifting  from  place  to  place. 

"  Oh  for  the  skies  of  rolling  blue, 
The  balmy  hours  when  lovers  woo, 
When  the  moon  is  doubled  as  in  desire, 
And  the  lone  bird  cries  in  his  crest  of  fire, 
Like  vespers  calling  the  soul  to  bliss 
In  the  blessed  love  of  the  life  above, 
Ere  it  has  taken  the  stains  of  this! 

"  The  world  afar,  yet  at  my  feet, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.     97 

Went  steadily  and  sternly  on; 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  meet 
The  crush  and  bustle  of  the  street, 
When  from  the  mountain  I  look'd  down. 
And  deep  down  in  the  canon's  mouth 
The  long-torn  ran  and  pick-axe  rang, 
And  pack-trains  coming  from  the  south 
Went  stringing  round  the  mountain  high 
In  long  grey  lines,  as  wild  geese  fly, 
While  mul'teers  shouted  hoarse  and  high, 
And  dusty,  dusky  mul'teers  sang — 
'Senora  with  the  liquid  eye  ! 
No  floods  can  ever  quench  the  flame, 
Or  frozen  snows  my  passion  tame, 
O  Jouana  with  the  coal-black  eye  ! 
O  senorita,  bide  a  bye!' 

"Environ'd  by  a  mountain  wall, 
That  caped  in  snowy  turrets  stood; 
So  fierce,  so  terrible,  so  tall, 
It  never  yet  had  been  defiled 
By  track  or  trail,  save  by  the  wild 
Free  children  of  the  wildest  wood. 
An  unkiss'd  virgin  at  my  feet, 
Lay  my  pure,  hallow'd,  dreamy  vale, 

7 


98     THE  TALK  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Where  breathed  the  essence  of  my  tale; 
Lone  dimple  in  the  mountain's  face, 
Lone  Eden  in  a  boundless  waste 
It  lay  so  beautiful!  so  sweet! 

"  There  in  the  sun's  decline  I  stood 
By  God's  form  wrought  in  pink  and  pearl, 
My  peerless,  dark-eyed  Indian  girl; 
And  gazed  out  from  a  fringe  of  wood, 
With  full-fed  soul  and  feasting  eyes, 
Upon  an  earthly  paradise. 
Inclining  to  the  south  it  lay, 
And  long  league's  southward  roll'd  away, 
Until  the  sable-feather'd  pines 
And  tangled  boughs  and  amorous  vines 
Closed  like  besiegers  on  the  scene, 
The  while  the  stream  that  intertwined 
Had  barely  room  to  flow  between. 
It  was  unlike  all  other  streams, 
Save  those  seen  in  sweet  summer  dreams; 
For  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  snow, 
Nor  rock  nor  stone  was  ever  known, 
But  only  shining,  shifting  sands, 
Forever  sifted  by  unseen  hands. 
It  curved,  it  bent  like  Indian  bow, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.     99 

And  like  an  arrow  darted  through, 
Yet  uttered  not  a  sound  nor  breath, 
Nor  broke  a  ripple  from  the  start; 
It  was  as  swift,  as  still  as  death, 
Yet  was  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
It  wound  its  way  i'nto  your  heart 
As  through  the  grasses  at  your  feet. 

"Once,  through  the  tall  untangled  grass, 
I  saw  two  black  bears  careless  pass, 
And  in  the  twilight  turn  to  play; 
I  caught  my  rifle  to  my  face, 
She  raised  her  hand  with  quiet  grace 
And  said,  '  Not  so,  for  us  the  day, 
The  night  belongs  to  such  as  they.' 

"  And  then  from  out  the  shadow'd  wood 
The  antler'd  deer  came  stalking  down 
In  half  a  shot  of  where  I  stood; 
Then  stopp'd  and  stamp'd  impatiently, 
Then  shook  his  head  and  antlers  high, 
And  then  his  keen  horns  backward  threw 
Upon  his  shoulders  broad  and  brown, 
And  thrust  his  muzzle  in  the  air, 
Snuff'd  proudly;  then  a  blast  he  blew 


IOO    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

As  if  to  say,  "  No  danger  here." 

And  then  from  out  the  sable  wood 

His  mate  and  two  sweet  dappled  fawns 

Stole  forth,  and  by  the  monarch  stood, 

She  timid,  while  the  little  ones 

Would  start  like  aspens  in  a  gale. 

Then  he,  as  if  to  reassure 

The  timid,  trembling  and  demure, 

Again  his  antlers  backward  threw, 

Again  a  blast  defiant  blew, 

Then  led  them  proudly  down  the  vale. 

"  I  watch'd  the  forms  of  darkness  come 
Slow  stealing  from  their  sylvan  home, 
And  pierce  the  sunlight  drooping  low 
And  weary,  as  if  loth  to  go. 
He  stain'd  the  lances  as  he  bled, 
And,  bleeding  and  pursued,  he  fled 
Across  the  vale  into  the  wood. 
I  saw  the  tall  grass  bend  its  head 
Beneath  the  stately  martial  tread 
Of  Shades, pursuer  and  pursued. 

"'Behold  the  clouds,'  Winnema  said, 
'All  purple  with  the  blood  of  day; 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    101 

The  night  has  conquer'd  in  the  fray, 
The  shadows  live,  and  light  is  dead.' 

"  She  turn'd  to  Shasta  gracefully, 
Around  whose  hoar  and  mighty  head 
Still  roll'd  a  sunset  sea  of  red, 
While  troops  of  clouds  a  space  below 
Were  drifting  wearily  and  slow, 
As  seeking  shelter  for  the  night, 
Like  weary  sea-birds  in  their  flight; 
Then  curved  her  right  arm  gracefully 
Above  her  brow,  and  bow'd  her  knee, 
And  chanted  in  an  unknown  tongue 
Words  sweeter  than  were  ever  sung. 

"  '  And  what  means  this?  '  I  gently  said. 
'  I  spoke  to  God,  the  Yopitone, 
Who  dwells  on  yonder  snowy  throne,' 
She  softly  said  with  drooping  head; 
'  I  bow'd  to  God.     He  heard  my  prayer, 
I  felt  his  warm  breath  in  my  hair, 
He  heard  me  all  my  desires  tell, 
And  He  is  good,  and  all  is  well.' 

"  The  dappled  and  the  dimpled  skies, 
The  timid  stars,  the  tinted  moon, 


1O2    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

All  smiled  as  sweet  as  sun  at  noon. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  rabbit's  eyes, 
Her  mien,  her  manner,  just  as  mild, 
And  though  a  savage  war-chief's  child, 
She  would  not  harm  the  lowliest  worm. 
And,  though  her  beaded  foot  was  firm, 
And  though  her  airy  step  was  true, 
She  would  not  crush  a  drop  of  dew. 

"  Her  love  was  deeper  than  the  sea, 
And  stronger  than  the  tidal  rise, 
And  clung  in  all  its  strength  to  me. 
A  face  like  hers  is  never  seen 
This  side  the  gates  of  paradise, 
Save  in  some  Indian-Summer  scene, 
And  then  none  ever  sees  it  twice — 
Is  seen  but  once,  and  seen  no  more, 
Seen  but  to  tempt  the  sceptic  soul, 
Andshow*a  sample  of  the  whole 
That  Heaven  has  in  store. 

"  You  might  have  plucked   beams   from    the 

moon, 

Or  torn  the  shadow  from  the  pine 
When  on  its  dial  track  at  noon, 


THE   TALE    OF   THE    TALL    ALCALDE.          IO3 

But  not  have  parted  us  an  hour, 
She  was  so  wholly,  truly  mine. 
And  life  was  one  unbroken  dream 
Of  purest  bliss  and  calm  delight, 
A  flow'ry-shored,  untroubled  stream 
Of  sun  and  song,  of  shade  and  bower, 
A  full-moon'd  serenading  night. 

"  Sweet  melodies  were  in  the  air, 
And  tame  birds  caroll'd  everywhere. 
I  listened  to  the  lisping  grove 
And  cooing  pink-eyed  turtle  dove, 
And  loving  with  the  holiest  love, 
Believing  with  a  grand  belief 
That  everything  beneath  the  skies 
Was  beautiful  and  born  to  love, 
That  man  had  but  to  love,  believe, 
And  earth  would  be  a  paradise 
As  beautiful  as  that  above. 
My  goddess,  Beauty,  I  adored, 
Devoutly,  fervid,  her  alone; 
My  Priestess,  Love,  unceasing  pour'd 
Pure  incense  on  her  altar-stone. 

"  I  carved  my  name  in  coarse  design 


104    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Once  on  a  birch  down  by  the  way, 
At  which  she  gazed,  as  she  would  say, 
'What  does  this  say?     What  is  this  sign?' 
And  when  I  gaily  said,  '  Some  day 
Some  one  will  come  and  read  my  name, 
And  I  will  live  in  song  and  fame, 
Entwined  with  many  a  mountain  tale, 
As  he  who  first  found  this  sweet  vale, 
And  they  will  give  the  place  my  name,' 
She  was  most  sad,  and  troubled  much, 
And  looked  in  silence  far  away; 
Then  started  trembling  from  my  touch, 
And  when  she  turn'd  her  face  again, 
I  read  unutterable  pain. 

"  At  last  she  answered  through  her  tears, 
'  Ah!  yes;  this,  too,  fulfils  my  fears. 
Yes,  they  will  come — my  race  must  go 
As  fades  a  vernal  fall  of  snow; 
And  you  be  known,  and  I  forgot 
Like  these  brown  leaves  that  rust  and  rot 
Beneath  my  feet;  and  it  is  well: 
I  do  not  seek  to  thrust  my  name 
On  those  who  here,  hereafter,  dwell, 
Because  I  have  before  them  dwelt; 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    IO5 

They  too  will  have  their  tales  to  tell, 
They  too  will  ask  their  time  and  fame. 

"  'Yes,  they  will  come,  come  even  now: 
The  dim  ghosts  on  yon  mountain's  brow, 
Grey  Fathers  of  my  tribe  and  race, 
Do  beckon  to  us  from  their  place, 
And  hurl  red  arrows  through  the  air 
At  night,  to  bid  our  braves  beware. 
A  footprint  by  the  clear  McCloud, 
Unlike  aught  ever  seen  before, 
Is  seen.     The  crash  of  rifles  loud 
Is  heard  along  its  farther  shore.' 

***** 

"  What  tall  and  tawny  men  were  these, 
As  sombre,  silent,  as  the  trees 
They  moved  among!  and  sad  some  way 
With  temper'd  sadness,  ever  they, — 
Yet  not  with  sorrow  born  of  fear. 
The  shadow  of  their  destinies 
They  saw  approaching  year  by  year, 
And  murmur'd  not.     They  saw  the  sun 
Go  down;  they  saw  the  peaceful  moon 
Move  on  in  silence  to  her  rest, 
And  white  streams  winding  to  the  west: 


IO6    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

And  thus  they  knew  that  oversoon, 
Somehow,  somewhere,  for  every  one 
W'as  rest  beyond  the  setting  sun. 
They  knew  not,  never  dream'd  of  doubt, 
But  turn'd  to  death  as  to  a  sleep, 
And  died  with  eager  hands  held  out 
To  reaching  hands  beyond  the  deep, — 
And  died  with  choicest  bow  at  hand, 
And  quiver  full,  and  arrow  drawn 
For  use,  when  sweet  to-morrow's  dawn 
Should  wake  them  in  the  Spirit  Land. 

"What  wonder  that  I  linger'd  there 
With  Nature's  children!     Could  I  part 
With  those  that  met  me  heart;  to  heart, 
And  made  me  welcome,  spoke  me  fair 
Were  first  of  all  that  understood 
My  waywardness  from  other's  ways, 
My  worship  of  the  true  and  good, 
And  earnest  love  of  Nature's  God? 
Go  court  the  mountains  in  the  clouds, 
And  clashing  thunder,  and  the  shrouds 
Of  tempests,  and  eternal  shocks, 
And  fast  and  pray  as  one  of  old 
In  earnestness,  and  ye  shall  hold 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    107 

The  mysteries;  shall  hold  the  rod 
That  passes  seas,  that  smites  the  rocks 
Where  streams  of  melody  and  song 
Shall  run  as  white  streams  rush  and  flow 
Down  from  the  mountains'  crests  of  snow, 
Forever,  to  a  thirsting  throng. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 
There  lies  no  neutral,  half-way  ground. 
I  heard  afar  the  thunder  sound 
That  soon  should  burst  above  my  head, 
And  made  my  choice;  I  laid  my  plan, 
And  child-like  chose  the  weaker  side; 
And  ever  have,  and  ever  will, 
While  might  is  wrong  and  wrongs  remain, 
As  careless  of  the  world  as  I 
Am  careless  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
W7ith  wayward  and  romantic  joy 
I  gave  my  pledge  like  any  boy, 
But  kept  my  promise  like  a  man, 
And  lost;  yet  with  the  lesson  still 
Would  gladly  do  the  same  again. 

"'They   come!     they  come!    the    pale-face 
come!' 


108    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

The  chieftain  shouted  where  he  stood, 
Sharp  watching  at  the  margin  wood, 
And  gave  the  war-whoop's  treble  yell, 
That  like  a  knell  on  fond  hearts  fell 
Far  watching  from  the  rocky  home. 

"  No  nodding  plumes  or  banners  fair 
Unfurl'd  or  .fretted  through  the  air; 
No  screaming  fife  or  rolling  drum 
Did  challenge  brave  of  soul  to  come: 
But,  silent,  sinew-bows  were  strung, 
And,  sudden,  heavy  quivers  hung, 
And,  swiftly,  to  the  battle  sprung 
Tall  painted  braves  with  tufted  hair, 
Like  death-black  banners  in  the  air. 

"And  long  they  fought,  and  firm  and  well 
And  silent  fought,  and  silent  fell, 
Save  when  they  gave  the  fearful  yell 
Of  death,  defiance,  or  of  hate, 
But  what  were  feather'd  flints  to  fate? 
And  what  were  yells  to  seething  lead? 
And  what  the  few  and  feeble  feet 
To  troops  that  came  with  martial  tread, 
And  moved  by  wood  and  hill  and  stream 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    IOQ 

As  thick  as  people  in  a  street, 
As  strange  as  spirits  in  a  dream? 

"  From  pine  and  poplar,  here  and  there, 
A  cloud,  a  flash,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  garments  roll'd  in  blood, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  mountain  air 
Of  fierce  defiance  and  despair, 
Did  tell  who  fell,  and  when  and  where. 
Then  tighter  drew  the  coils  around, 
And  closer  grew  the  battle-ground, 
And  fewer  feather'd  arrows  fell, 
And  fainter  grew  the  battle  yell, 
Until  upon  the  hill  was  heard 
The  short,  sharp  whistle  of  the  bird. 

"  The  calm,  that  cometh  after  all, 
Look'd  sweetly  down  at  shut  of  day, 
Where  friend  and  foe  commingled  lay 
Like  leaves  of  forest  as  they  fall. 
Afar  the  somber  mountains  frown'd, 
Here  tall  pines  wheel'd  their  shadows  round, 
Like  long,  slim  fingers  of  a  hand 
That  sadly  pointed  out  the  dead. 
Like  some  broad  shield  high  overhead 


IIO    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

The  great  white  moon  led  on  and  on, 
As  leading  to  the  better  land. 
You  might  have  heard  the  cricket's  trill, 
Or  night-birds  calling  from  the  hill, 
The  place  was  so  profoundly  still. 

"  The  mighty  chief  at  last  was  down, 
A  broken  gate  of  brass  and  pride! 
The  hair  all  dust,  and  this  his  crown! 
His  firm  lips  were  compress'd  in  hate 
To  foes,  yet  all  content  with  fate; 
While,  circled  round  him  thick,  the  foe 
Had  folded  hands  in  dust,  and  died. 
His  tomahawk  lay  at  his  side, 
All  blood,  beside  his  broken  bow. 
One  arm  stretch'd  out  as  over-bold, 
One  hand  half  doubled  hid  in  dust, 
And  clutch'd  the  earth,  as  if  to  hold 
His  hunting  grounds  still  in  his  trust. 

"Here  tall  grass  bow'd  its  tassel'd  head 
In  dewy  tears  above  the  dead, 
And  there  they  lay  in  crook'd  fern, 
That  waved  and  wept  above  by  turn: 
And  further  on,  by  somber  trees,      » 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    Ill 

They  lay,  wild  heroes  of  wild  deeds. 
In  shrouds  alone  of  weeping  weeds, 
Bound  in  a  never-to-be-broken  peace. 

"  Not  one  had  falter'd,  not  one  brave 
Survived  the  fearful  struggle,  save 
One — save  I  the  renegade, 
The  red  man's  friend,  and — they  held  me  so 
For  this  alone — the  white  man's  foe. 

"  They  bore  me  bound  for  many  a  day 
Through  fen  and  wild,  by  foamy  flood, 
From  my  dear  mountains  far  away, 
Where  an  adobe  prison  stood 
Beside  a  sultry  sullen,  town, 
With  iron  eyes  and  stony  frown; 
And  in  a  dark  and  narrow  cell, 
So  hot  it  almost  took  my  breath, 
And  seem'd  but  some  outpost  of  hell, 
They  thrust  me — as  if  I  had  been 
A  monster,  in  a  monster's  den. 
I  cried  aloud,  I  courted  death, 
I  call'd  unto  a  strip  of  sky, 
The  only  thing  beyond  my  cell 
That  I  could  see,  but  no  reply 


112    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Came  but  the  echo  of  my  breath. 

I  paced — how  long  I  cannot  tell — 

My  reason  fail'd,  I  knew  no  more, 

And  swooning  fell  upon  the  floor. 

Then  months  went  on,  till  deep  one  night, 

When  long  thin  bars  of  cool  moonlight 

Lay  shimmering  along  the  floor, 

My  senses  came  to  me  once  more. 

"My  eyes  look'd  full  into  her  eyes — 
Into  her  soul  so  true  and  tried. 
I  thought  myself  in  paradise, 
And  wonder'd  when  she  too  had  died. 
And  then  I  saw  the  striped  light 
That  struggled  past  the  prison  bar, 
And  in  an  instant,  at  the  sight, 
My  sinking  soul  fell  just  as  far 
As  could  a  star  loosed  by  a  jar 
From  out  the  setting  in  a  ring, 
The  purpled  semi-circled  ring 
That  seems  to  circle  us  at  night. 

"  She  saw  my  senses  had  return'd, 
Then  swift  to  press  my  pallid  face — 
Then,  as  if  spurn'd,  she  sudden  turn'd 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    113 

Her  sweet  face  to  the  prison  wall; 
Her  bosom  rose,  her  hot  tears  fell 
Fast  as  drip  moss-stones  in  a  well, 
And  then,  as  if  subduing  all 
In  one  strong  struggle  of  the  soul, 
Be  what  they  were  of  vows  or  fears, 
With  kisses  and  hot  tender  tears, 
There  in  that  deadly,  loathsome  place, 
She  bathed  my  pale  and  piteous  face. 

"  I. was  so  weak  I  could  not  speak 
Or  press  my  pale  lips  to  her  cheek; 
I  only  looked  my  wish  to  share 
The  secret  of  her  presence  there. 
Then  looking  through  her  falling  hair, 
She  press'd  her  finger  to  her  lips,  . 
More  sweet  than  sweets  the  brown  bee  sips. 
More  sad  than  any  grief  untold, 
More  silent  than  the  milk-white  moon, 
She  turned  away.     I  heard  unfold 
An  iron  door,  and  she  was  gone. 

"  At  last,  one  midnight,  I  was  free; 
Again  I  felt  the  liquid  air 
Around  my  hot  brow  like  a  sea, 

8 


114         THE   TALE    OF   THE   TALL    ALCALDE. 

Sweet  as  my  dear  Madonna's  prayer, 
Or  benedictions  on  the  soul; 
Pure  air,  which  God  gives  free  to  all, 
Again  I  breathed  without  control — 
Pure  air  that  man  would  fain  enthral; 
God's  air,  which  man  hath  seized  and  sold 
Unto  his  fellow-man  for  gold. 

"  I  bow'd  down  to  the  bended  sky, 
I  toss'd  my  two  thin  hands  on  high, 
I  call'd  unto  the  crooked  moon, 
I  shouted  to  the  shining  stars, 
With  breath  and  rapture  uncontroll'd, 
Like  some  wild  school-boy  loosed  at  noon, 
Or  comrade  coming  from  the  wars, 

Hailing  his  companeers  of  old. 

• 

"  Short  time  for  shouting  or  delay, — 
The  cock  is  shrill,  the  east  is  grey, 
Pursuit  is  made,  I  must  away. 
They  cast  me  on  a  sinewy  steed, 
And  bid  me  look  to  girth  and  guide — 
A  caution  of  but  little  need. 
I  dash  the  iron  in  his  side, 
Swift  as  the  shooting  stars  I  ride; 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

I  turn,  I  see,  to  my  dismay, 

A  silent  rider  red  as  they; 

I  glance  again — it  is  my  bride, 

My  love,  my  life,  rides  at  my  side. 

"  By  gulch  and  gorge  and  brake  and  all, 
Swift  as  the  shining  meteors  fall, 
We  fly,  and  never  sound  nor  word 
But  ringing  mustang-hoofs  is  heard, 
And  limbs  of  steel  and  lungs  of  steam 
Could  not  be  stronger  than  theirs  seem. 
Grandly  as  some  joyous  dream, 
League  on  league,  and  hour  on  hour, 
Far  from  keen  pursuit,  or  power 
Of  sheriff  or  bailiff,  high  or  low, 
Into  the  bristling  hills  we  go. 

"  Into  the  tumbled,  clear  McCloud, 
White  as  the  foldings  of  a  shroud; 
We  dash  into  the  dashing  stream, 
We  breast  the  tide,  we  drop  the  rein, 
We  clutch  the  streaming,  tangled  mane — 
And  yet  the  rider  at  my  side 
Has  never  look  nor  word  replied. 

"Out  in  its  foam,  its  rush,  its  roar, 


Il6    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Breasting  away  to  the  farther  shore; 
Steadily,  bravely,  gain'd  at  last, 
Gain'd,  where  never  a  dastard  foe 
Has  dared  to  come,  or  friend  to  go. 
Pursuit  is  baffled  and  danger  pass'd. 

rt  Under  an  oak  whose  wide  arms  were 
Lifting  aloft,  as  if  in  prayer, 
Under  an  oak,  where  the  shining  moon 
Like  feather'd  snow  in  a  winter  noon 
Quiver'd,  sifted,  and  drifted  down 
In  spars  and  bars  on  her  shoulders  brown: 
And  yet  she  was  as  silent  still 
As  black  stones  toppled  from  the  hill — 
Great  basalt  blocks  that  near  us  lay, 
Deep  nestled  in  the  grass  untrod 
By  aught  save  wild  beasts  of  the  wood — 
Great,  massive,  squared,  and  chisel'd  stone, 
Like  columns  that  had  toppled  down 
From  temple  dome  or  tower  crown. 
Along  some  drifted,  silent  way 
Of  desolate  and  desert  town 
Built  by  the  children  of  the  sun. 
And  I  in  silence  sat  on  one, 
And  she  stood  gazing  far  away 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    II? 

To  where  her  childhood  forests  lay, 
Still  as  the  stone  I  sat  upon. 

"I  sought  to  catch  her  to  my  breast 
And  charm  her  from  her  silent  mood; 
She  shrank  as  if  a  beam,  a  breath, 
Then  silently  before  me  stood, 
Still,  coldly,  as  the  kiss  of  death. 
Her  face  was  darker  than  a  pall, 
Her  presence  was  so  proudly  tall, 
I  would  have  started  from  the  stone 
Where  I  sat  gazing  up  at  her, 
As  from  a  form  to  earth  unknown, 
Had  I  possess'd  the  power  to  stir. 

"'  O  touch  me  not,  no  more,  no  more; 
'Tis  past,  and  my  sweet  dream  is  o'er. 
Impure!  Impure!  Impure!"  she  cried. 
In  words  as  sweetly,  weirdly  wild 
As  mingling  of  a  rippled  tide, 
And  music  on  the  waters  spill'd.  .  .  . 
'But  you  are  free.     Fly!     Fly  alone. 
Yes,  you  will  win  another  bride 
In  some  far  clime  where  naught  is  known 
Of  all  that  you  have  won  or  lost, 
Or  what  your  life  this  night  has  cost; 


Il8    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Will  win  you  name,  and  place,  and  power, 

And  ne'er  recall  this  face,  this  hour, 

Save  in  some  secret,  deep  regret, 

Which  I  forgive  and  you'll  forget. 

Your  destiny  will  lead  you  on 

Where,  open'd  wide  to  welcome  you, 

Rich,  ardent  hearts  and  bosoms  are, 

And  snowy  arms,  more  purely  fair, 

And  breasts — who  dare  say  breasts  more  true? 

"  '  They  said  you  had  deserted  me, 
Had  rued  you  of  your  wood  and  wild. 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  be, 
I  trusted  as  a  trusting  child. 
I  cross'd  the  bristled  mountain  high 
That  curves  its  rough  back  to  the  sky, 
I  rode  the  white-maned  mountain  flood, 
And  track'd  for  weeks  the  trackless  wood. 
The  good  God  led  me,  as  before, 
And  brought  me  to  your  prison-door. 

'"That  madden'd  call!  that  fever'd  moan! 
I  heard  you  in  the  midnight  call 
My  own  name  through  the  massive  wall, 
In  my  sweet  mountain-tongue  and  tone — 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

And  yet  you  call'd  so  feebly  wild, 
I  near  mistook  you  for  a  child. 

The  keeper  with  his  clinking  keys 
I  sought,  implored  upon  my  knees 
That  I  might  see  you,  feel  your  breath, 
Your  brow,  or  breathe  you  low  replies 
Of  com'fort  in  your  lonely  death. 
His  red  face  shone,  his  redder  eyes 
Were  like  the  fire  of  the  skies; 
Then  all  his  face  was  as  a  fire, 
As  he  said,  "  Yield  to  my  desire." 
Again  I  heard  your  feeble  moan, 
I  cried,  "  And  must  he  die  alone?  " 
I  cried  unto  a  heart  of  stone. 
Ah!  why  the  hateful  horrors  tell? 
Enough!  I  crept  into  your  cell. 

" '  I  nursed  you,  lured  you  back  to  life, 
And  when  you  woke  and  call'd  me  wife 
And  love,  with  pale  lips  rife 
With  love  and  feeble  loveliness, 
J  turn'd  away,  I  hid  my  face, 
In  mad  reproach  and  deep  distress, 
In  dust  down  in  that  loathsome  place. 


I2O        THE   TALE    OF    THE   TALL    ALCALDE. 

"'And  then  I  vow'd  a  solemn  vow 
That  you  should  live,  live  and  be  free. 
And  you  have  lived — are  free;  and  now 
Too  slow  yon  red  sun  comes  to  see 
My  life  or  death,  or  me  again. 
Oh,  death!  the  peril  and  the  pain 
I  have  endured!  the  dark,  dark  stain 
That  I  did  take  on  my  fair  soul, 
All,  all  to  save  you,  make  you  free, 
Are  more  than  mortal  can  endure: 
But  fire  makes  the  foulest  pure. 

'"Behold  this  finish'd  funeral  pyre, 
All  ready  for  the  form  and  fire, 
Which  these,  my  own  hands,  did  prepare 
For  this  last  night;  then  lay  me  there. 
I  would  not  hide  me  from  my  God 
Beneath  the  cold  and  sullen  sod, 
But,  wrapp'd  in  fiery  shining  shroud, 
Ascend  to  Him,  a  wreathing  cloud.' 

"She  paused,  she  turn'd,  she  lean'd  apace 
Her  glance  and  half-regretting  face, 
As  if  to  yield  herself  to  me; 
And  then  she  cried,  '  It  cannot  be, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    121 

For  I  have  vow'd  a  solemn  vow, 
And  God  help  me  to  keep  it  now! ' 

"  I  sprang  with  arms  extended  wide 
To  catch  her  to  my  burning  breast; 
She  caught  a  dagger  from  her  side 
And,  ere  I  knew  to  stir  or  start, 
She  plunged  it  in  her  bursting  heart, 
And  fell  into  my  arms  and  died — 
Died  as  my  soul  to  hers  was  press'd, 
Died  as  I  held  her  to  my  breast, 
Died  without  one  word  or  moan, 
And  left  me  with  my  dead — alone. 

"I  laid  my  dead  upon  the  pile, 
And  underneath  the  lisping  oak 
I  watch'd  the  columns  of  dark  smoke 
Embrace  her  red  lips,  with  a  smile 
Of  frenzied  fierceness.     Then  there  came 
A  gleaming  column  of  red  flame, 
That  grew  a  grander  monument 
Above  her  nameless  noble  mould 
Than  ever  bronze  or  marble  lent 
To  king  or  conqueror  of  old. 


122    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE 

"It  seized  her  in  its  hot  embrace, 
And  leapt  as  if  to  reach  the  stars. 
Then  looking  up  I  saw  a  face 
So  saintly  and  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sad,  so  pitying,  and  so  pure, 
I  nigh  forgot  the  prison  bars, 
And  for  one  instant,  one  alone, 
I  felt  I  could  forgive,  endure. 

"  I  laid  a  circlet  of  white  stone, 
And  left  her  ashes  there  alone. 
But  after  many  a  white  moon-wane 
I  sought  that  sacred  ground  again. 
I  saw  the  circle  of  white  stone 
With  tall  wild  grasses  overgrown. 
I  did  expect,  I  know  not  why, 
From  out  her  sacred  dust  to  find 
Wild  pinks  and  daisies  blooming  fair; 
And  when  I  did  not  find  them  there 
I  almost  deem'd"  her  God  unkind, 
Less  careful  of  her  dust  than  I. 

"But  why  the  dreary  tale  prolong? 
And  deem  you  I  confess'd  me  wrong, 
That  I  did  bend  a  patient  knee 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    123 

To  all  the  deep  wrongs  done  to  me? 
That  I,  because  the  prison  mould 
Was  on  my  brow,  and  all  its  chill 
Was  in  my  heart  as  chill  as  night, 
Till  soul  and  body  both  were  cold, 
Did  curb  my  free-born  mountain  will 
And  sacrifice  my  sense  of  right? 

.    "  No!  no!  and  had  they  come  that" day 

While  I  with  hands  and  garments  red 

Stood  by  her  pleading,  gory  clay, 

The  one  lone  watcher  by  my  dead, 

With  cross-hilt  dagger  in  my  hand, 

And  offer'd  me  my  life  and  all 

Of  titles,  power,  or  of  place, 

I  should  have  spat  them  in  the  face, 

And  spurn'd  them  every  one. 

I  live  as  God  gave  me  to  live, 

I  see  as  God  gave  me  to  see. 

'Tis  not  my  nature  to  forgive, 

Or  cringe  and  plead  and  bend  the  knee 

To  God  or  man  in  woe  or  weal, 

In  penitence  I  cannot  feel. 

"  I  do  not  question  school  nor  creed 
Of  Christian,  Protestant,  or  Priest; 


124    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

I  only  know  that  creeds  to  me 
Are  but  new  names  for  mystery, 
That  God  is  good  from  east  to  east, 
And  more  I  do  not  know  nor  need 
To  know,  to  love  my  neighbor  well. 
I  take  their  dogmas,  as  they  tell, 
Their  pictures  of  their  Godly  good, 
In  garments  thick  with  heathen  blood; 
Their  heaven  with  its  harps  of  gold, 
Their  horrid  pictures  of  their  hell, 
Take  hell  and  heaven  undenied, 
Yet  were  the  two  placed  side  by  side, 
Placed  full  before  me  for  my  choice, 
As  they  are  pictured,  best  and  worst, 
As  they  are  peopled,  tame  and  bold, 
The  canonized,  and  the  accursed 
Who  dared  to  think,  and  thinking  speak, 
And  speaking  act,  bold  cheek  to  cheek, 
I  would  in  transports  choose  the  first, 
And  enter  hell  with  lifted  voice. 

***** 

"  Go  read  the  annals  of  the  North, 
And  records  there  of  many  a  wail, 
Of  marshalling  and  going  forth 
For  missing  sheriffs,  and  for  men 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    125 

Who  fell  and  none  knew  where  nor  when, — 

Who  disappear'd  on  mountain  trail, 

Or  in  some  dense  and  narrow  vale.' 

Go,  traverse  Trinity  and  Scott, 

That  curve  their  dark  backs  to  the  sun: 

Go,  court  them  all.     Lo!  have  they  not 

The  chronicles  of  my  wild  life? 

My  secrets  on  their  lips  of  stone, 

My  archives  built  of  human  bone? 

Go,  range  their  wilds  as  I  have  done, 

From  snowy  crest  to  sleeping  vales, 

And  you  will  find  on  every  one 

Enough  to  swell  a  thousand  tales. 

*  *  *  *  # 

"The  soul  cannot  survive  alone, 
And  hate  will  die,  like  other  things; 
I  felt  an  ebbing  in  my  rage, 
I  hunger'd  for  the  sound  of  one, 
Just  one  familiar  word, — 
Yearn'd  but  to  hear  my  fellow  speak, 
Or  sound  of  woman's  mellow  tone, 
As  beats  the  wild,  imprison'd  bird, 
That  long  nor  kind  nor  mate  has  heard, 
With  bleeding  wings  and  panting  beak 
Against  its  iron  cage. 


126    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

"  I  saw  a  low-roof'd  rancho  lie, 
Far,  far  below,  at  set  of  sun, 
Along  the  foot-hills  crisp  and  dun — 
A  lone  sweet  star  in  lower  sky; 
Saw  children  sporting  to  and  fro, 
The  busy  housewife  come  and  go, 
And  white  cows  come  at  her  command, 
And  none  look'd  larger  than  my  hand. 
Then  worn  and  torn,  and  tann'd  and  brown, 
And  heedless  all,  I  hasten'd  down; 
A  wanderer  wandering  long  and  late, 
I  stood  before  the  rustic  gate. 

"  Two  little  girls,  with  brown  feet  bare, 
And  tangled,  tossing,  yellow  hair, 
Play'd  on  the  green,  fantastic  dress'd, 
Around  a  great  Newfoundland  brute 
That  lay  half-resting  on  his  breast, 
And  with  his  red  mouth  open'd  wide 
Would  make  believe  that  he  would  bite, 
As  they  assail'd  him  left  and  right, 
And  then  sprang  to  the  other  side, 
And  fill'd  with  shouts  the  willing  air. 
Oh,  sweeter  far  than  lyre  or  lute 
To  my  then  hot  and  thirsty  heart, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    I2/ 

And  better  self  so  wholly  mute, 
Were  those  sweet  voices  calling  there. 

"Though  some  sweet  scenes  my  eyes  have 

seen, 

Some  melody  my  soul  has  heard, 
No  song  of  any  maid,  or  bird, 
Or  splendid  wealth  of  tropic  scene, 
Or  scene  or  song  of  anywhere, 
Has  my  impulsive  soul  so  stirr'd, 
As  those  young  angels  sporting  there. 

"The  dog  at  sight  of  me  arose, 
And  nobly  stood,  with  lifted  nose, 
Afront  the  children,  now  so  still, 
And  staring  at  me  with  a  will. 
'Come  in,  come  in,'  the  rancher  cried, 
As  here  and  there  the  housewife  hied; 
'Sit  down,  sit  down,  you  travel  late. 
What  news  of  politics  or  war? 
And  are  you  tired?     Go  you  far? 
And  where  you  from?     Be  quick,  my  Kate, 
This  boy  is  sure  in  need  of  food.' 
The  little  children  close  by  stood, 
And  watch'd  and  gazed  inquiringly, 
Then  came  and  climb'd  upon  my  knee. 


128    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.' 

"'That  there's  my  ma,'  the  eldest  said, 
And  laugh'd  and  toss'd  her  pretty  head; 
And  then,  half  bating  of  her  joy, 
'Have  you  a  ma,  you  stranger  boy? — 
And  there  hangs  Carlo  on  the  wall 
As  large  as  life;  that  mother  drew 
With  berry  stains  upon  a  shred 
Of  tattered  tent;  but  hardly  you 
Would  know  the  picture  his  at  all, 
For  Carlo's  black,  and  this  is  red.' 
Again  she  laugh'd,  and  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  curls  all  out  of  place; 
Then  sudden  sad,  she  raised  her  face 
To  mine,  and  tenderly  she  said, 
'  Have  you,  like  us,  a  pretty  home? 
Have  you,  like  me,  a  dog  and  toy? 
Where  do  you  live,  and  whither  roam? 
And  where's  your  pa,  poor  stranger  boy? 

"It  seem'd  so  sweetly  out  of  place 
Again  to  meet  my  fellow-man, 
I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  his  face 
As  something  I  had  never  seen. 
The  melody  of  woman's  voice 
Fell  on  my  ear  as  falls  the  rain 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    I2Q 

Upon  the  weary,  waiting  plain. 

I  heard,  and  drank  and  drank  again, 

As  earth  with  crack'd  lips  drinks  the  rain, 

In  green  to  revel  and  rejoice. 

I  ate  with  thanks  my  frugal  food, 

The  first  return'd  for  many  a  day. 

I  had  met  kindness  by  the  way! 

I  had  at  last  encounter'd  good! 

%. 

"I  sought  my  couch,  but  not  to  sleep; 
New  thoughts  were  coursing  strong  and  deep 
My  wild,  impulsive  passion-heart; 
I  could  not  rest,  my  heart  was  moved, 
My  iron  will  forgot  its  part, 
And  I  wept  like  a  child  reproved. 


"  I  lay  and  pictured  me  a  life 
Afar  from  cold  reproach  or  stain, 
Or  annals  dark  of  blood  and  strife, 
From  deadly  perils  or  heart-pain; 
And  at  the  breaking  of  the  morn 
I  swung  my  arms  from  off  the  horn, 
And  turned  to  other  scenes  and  lands 
With  lighten'd  heart  and  whiten'd  hands. 

9 


130    THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

"  Where  orange-blossoms  never  die, 
Where  red  fruits  ripen  all  the  year 
Beneath  a  sweet  and  balmy  sky, 
Far  from  my  language  or  my  land, 
Reproach,  regret,  or  shame  or  fear, 
I  came  in  hope,  I  wander'd  here — 
Yes,  here;  and  this  red,  bony  hand 
That  holds  this  glass  of  ruddy  cheer — 

"  Tis  he!"  hiss'd  the  crafty  advocate. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  hot  with  hate 
He  reach'd  his  hands,  and  he  call'd  aloud, 
"  'Tis  the  renegade  of  the  red  McCloud!  " 

Slowly  the  Alcade  rose  from  his  chair; 
"  Hand  me,  touch  me,  him  who  dare!  " 
And  his  heavy  glass  on  the  board  of  oak 
He  smote  with  such  savage  and  mighty  stroke, 
It  ground  to  dust  in  his  bony  hand, 
And  heavy  bottles  did  clink  and  tip 
As  if  an  earthquake  were  in  the  land. 
He  tower'd  up,  and  in  his  ire 
Seem'd  taller  than  a  church's  spire. 
He  gazed  a  moment— and  then,  the  while 
An  icy  cold  and  defiant  smile 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE.    13! 

Did  curve  his  thin  and  his  livid  lip, 

He  turn'd  on  his  heel,  he  stode  through  the  hall 

Grand  as  a  god,  so  grandly  tall, 

Yet  white  and  cold  as  a  chisel'd  stone; 

He  passed  him  out  the  adobe  door 

Into  the  night,  and  he  pass'd  alone, 

And  never  was  known  nor  heard  of  more. 


A     WILD,  wide  land  of  mysteries, 
Of  sea-salt  lakes  and  dried-up  seas. 
And  lonely  wells  and  pools ;  a  land 
That  seems  so  like  dead  Palestine, 
Save  that  its  wastes  have  no  confine 
Till  push'd  against  the  levelled  skies. 
A  land  from  out  whose  depths  shall  rise 
The  new-time  prophets.     Yea,  tht  land 
From  out  whose  awful  depths  shall  come. 
Alidad  in  skins,  with  dusty  feet, 
A  man  fresh  from  his  Maker's  hand, 
A  singer  singing  oversweet, 
A  charmer  charming  very  wise; 
And  then  all  men  shall  not  be  dumb. 
Nay,  not  be  dumb ;  for  he  shall  say, 
"Take  heed,  far  I  prepare  the  way 
For  weary  feet."    Lo  !  from  this  land 
Of  Jordan  streams  and  sea-washed  sand. 
The  Christ  shall  come  when  next  the  race 
Of  man  shall  look  upon  His  face. 


THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT 

i. 

A  MAN  in  middle  Aridzone 
Stood  by  the  desert's  edge  alone, 
And  long  he  look'd,  and  lean'd,  and  peer'd, 
And  twirl'd  about  his  twisted  beard, 

132 


THE   SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT.  133 

Beneath  a  black  and  slouchy  hat— 
Nay,  nay,  the  tale  is  not  of  that. 

A  skin-clad  trapper,  toe-a-tip, 
Stood  on  a  mountain  top;  and  he 
Look'd  long,  and  still,  and  eagerly. 
"  It  looks  so  like  some  lonesome  ship 
That  sails  this  ghostly,  lonely  sea, — 
This  dried-up  desert  sea,"  said  he, 
"  These  tawny  sands  of  Arazit."  .  .  . 
Avaunt!  this  tale  is  not  of  it. 

A  chief  from  out  the  desert's  rim 
Rode  swift  as  twilight  swallows  swim. 
A  wild  and  wiry  man  was  he, 
This  tawny  chief  of  Shoshonee; 
And  O'.his  supple  steed  was  fleet! 
About  his  breast  flapp'd  panther  skins, 
About  his  eager  flying  feet 
Flapp'd  beaded,  braided  moccasins: 
He  stopp'd,  he  stood  as  still  as  stone, 
He  lean'd,  he  look'd,  there  glisten'd  bright, 
From  out  the  yellow,  yielding  sand, 
A  golden  cup  with  jewell'd  rim. 
He  lean'd  him  low,  he  reach'd  a  hand, 


134  THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

He  caught  it  up,  he  gallop'd  on, 

He  turn'd  his  head,  he  saw  a  sight.  .  .  . 

His  panther-skins  flew  to  the  wind, 

He  rode  into  the  rim  of  night; 

The  dark,  the  desert  lay  behind; 

The  tawny  Ishmaelite  was  gone. 

He  reach'd  the  town,  and  there  held  up 
Above  his  head  a  jewel'd  cup. 
He  put  two  fingers  to  his  lip, 
He  whisper'd  wild,  he  stood  a-tip, 
And  lean'd  the  while  with  lifted  hand, 
And  said,  "  A  ship  lies  yonder  dead," 
And  said,  "  Doubloons  lie  sown  in  sand 
In  yon  far  desert  dead  and  brown. 
Beyond  where  wave-wash'd  walls  look  o^wn, 
As  thick  as  stars  set  overhead." 
"'Tis  from  that  desert  ship,"  they  said, 
"That  sails  with  neither  sail  nor  breeze, 
The  lonely  bed  of  dried-up  seas, — 
A  galleon  that  sank  below 
Dead  seas  ere  yet  we  drew  the  bow." 

By  Arizona's  sea  of  sand 
Some  bearded  miners,  grey  and  old, 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT.  135 

And  resolute  in  search  of  gold, 
Sat  down  to  tap  the  savage  land. 
A  miner  stood  beside  his  mine, 
He  pull'd  his  beard,  then  looked  away 
Across  the  level  sea  of  sand, 
Beneath  his  broad  and  hairy  hand, 
A  hand  as  hard  of  knots  of  pine. 
"It  looks  so  like  a  sea,"  said  he. 
He  pull'd  his  beard,  and  he  did  say, 
"It  looks  just  like  a  dried-up  sea." 
Again  he  pull'd  that  beard  of  his, 
But  said  no  other  thing  than  this. 


The  stalwart  miner  dealt  a  stroke, 
And  struck  a  buried  beam  of  oak. 
The  miner  twisted,  twirl'd  his  beard, 
Lean'd  on  his  pickaxe  as  he  spoke: 
'"Tis  from  some  long-lost  ship,"  he  said, 
"Some  laden  ship  of  Solomon 
That  sail'd  these  lonesome  seas  upon 
In  search  of  Ophir's  mine,  ah  me! 
That  sail'd  this  dried-up  desert  sea." .... 
Nay,  nay,  'tis  not  a  tale  of  gold, 
But  ghostly  land,  storm-slain  and  old. 


136  THE    SHIP   IN   THE    DESERT. 


II. 

And  this  the  tale.     Along  a  wide 
And  sounding  stream  some  silent  braves, 
That  stole  along  the  farther  side 
Through  sweeping  wood  that  swept  the  waves 
Like  long  arms  reach'd  across  the  tide, 
Kept  watch  and  every  foe  defied. 

A  low,  black  boat  that  hugg'd  the  shores, 
An  ugly  boat,  an  ugly  crew, 
Thick-lipp'd  and  woolly-headed  slaves, 
That  bow'd,  and  bent  the  white-ash  oars, 
That  cleft  the  murky  waters  through, 
Slow  climb'd  the  swift  Missouri's  waves. 

A  grand  old  Neptune  in  the  prow, 
Grey-hair'd,  and  white  with  touch  of  time, 
Yet  strong  as  in  his  middle  prime, 
Stood  up,  turn'd  suddenly,  look'd  back 
Along  his  low  boat's  wrinkled  track, 
Then  drew  his  mantle  round,  and  now 
He  sat  all  silently.     Beside 
The  grim  old  sea-king  sat  his  bride, 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  137 

A  sun-land  blossom,  rudely  torn 
From  tropic  forests  to  be  worn 
Above  as  stern  a  breast  as  e'er 
Stood  king  at  sea,  or  anywhere. 

Another  boat  with  other  crew 
Came  swift  and  cautious  in  her  track, 
And  now  shot  shoreward,  now  shot  back, 
And  now  sat  rocking  fro  and  to, 
But  never  once  lost  sight  of  her. 
Tall,  sunburnt,  southern  men  were  these 
From  isles  of  blue  Caribbean  seas, 
And  one,  that  woman's  worshipper, 
Who  look'd  on  her,  and  loved  but  her. 

And  one,  that  one,  was  wild  as  seas 
That  wash  the  far,  dark  Oregon. 
And  one,  that  one,  had  eyes  to  teach 
The  art  of  love,  and  tongue  to  preach 
Life's  hard  and  sober  homilies, 
While  he  stood  leaning,  urging  on. 


in. 

Pursuer  and  pursued.     And  who 
Are  these  that  make  the  sable  crew; 


138  THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 

These  mighty  Titans,  black  and  nude, 
And  hairy -breasted,  bronzed  and  broad 
Of  chest  as  any  demi-god, 
That  dare  this  peopled  solitude? 

And  who  is  he  that  leads  them  here, 
And  breaks  the  hush  of  wave  and  wrood? 
Comes  he  for  evil  or  for  good? 
Brave  Jesuit  or  bold  buccaneer? 

Nay,  these  be  idle  themes.     Let  pass. 
These  be  but  men.     We  may  forget 
The  wild  sea-king,  the  tawny  brave, 
The  frowning  wold,  the  woody  shore, 
The  tall-built,  sunburnt  men  of  Mars. 
But  what  and  who  was  she,  the  fair? 
The  fairest  face  that  ever  yet 
Look'd  in  a  wave  as  in  a  glass; 
That  look'd  as  look  the  still,  far  stars, 
So  woman-like,  into  the  wave 
To  contemplate  their  beauty  there? 

I  only  saw  her,  heard  the  sound 
Of  murky  waters  gurgling  round 
In  counter-currents  from  the  shore, 


THE   SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT.  139 

But  heard  the  long,  strong  stroke  of  oar 

Against  the  waters  grey  and  vast; 

I  only  saw  her  as  she  pass'd— 

A  great,  sad  beauty,  in  whose  eyes 

Lay  all  the  loves  of  Paradise 

O  you  had  loved  her  sitting  there. 
Half  hidden  in  her  loosen'd  hair; 
Yea,  loved  her  for  her  large  dark  eyes, 
Her  push'd  out  mouth,  her  mute  surprise — 
Her  mouth!  'twas  Egypt's  mouth  of  old, 
Push'd  out  and  pouting  full  and  bold 
With  simple  beauty  where  she  sat. 
Why,  you  had  said,  on  seeing  her, 
This  creature  comes  from  out  the  dim, 
Far  centuries,  beyond  the  rim 
Of  time's  remotest  reach  or  stir; 
And  he  who  wrought  Semiramis 
And  shaped  the  Sibyls,  seeing  this, 
Had  bow'd  and  made  a  shrine  thereat, 
And  all  his  life  had  worshipp'd  her. 

IV. 

The  black  men  bow'd,  the  long  oars  bent, 
They  struck  as  if  for  sweet  life's  sake, 


I4O  THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

And  one  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spake, 
And  all  wills  bent  to  one  intent. 

On,  through  the  golden  fringe  of  day 
Into  the  deep,  dark  night,  away 
And  up  the  wave  'mid  walls  of  wood 
They  cleft,  they  climb'd,  they  bow'd,  they 

bent, 

But  one  stood  tall,  and  restless  stood, 
And  one  sat  still  all  night,  all  day, 
And  gazed  in  helpless  wonderment. 

Her  hair  pour'd  down  like  darkling  wine, 
The  black  men  lean'd  a  sullen  line, 
The  bent  oars  kept  a  steady  song, 
And  all  the  beams  of  bright  sunshine 
That  touch'd  the  watets  wild  and  strong, 
Fell  drifting  down  and  out  of  sight 
Like  fallen  leaves,  and  it  was  night. 

And  night  and  day,  and  many  days 
They  climb'd  the  sudden,  dark  grey  tide. 
And  she  sat  silent  at  his  side, 
And  he  sat  turning  many  ways: 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  14! 

Sat  watching  for  his  wily  foe; 

At  last  he  baffled  him.     And  yet 

His  brow  gloom'd  dark,  his  lips  were  set; 

He  lean'd,  he  peer'd  through  boughs,  as  though 

From  heart  of  forests  deep  and  dim 

Grim  shapes  could  come  confronting  him. 


A  grand,  uncommon  man  was  he, 
Broad-shoulder'd,  as  of  Gothic  form, 
Strong-built,  and  hoary  like  a  sea; 
A  high  sea  broken  up  by  storm. 
His  face  was  brown  and  over- wrought 
By  seams  and  shadows  born  of  thought, 
Not  over-gentle.     And  his  eyes, 
Bold,  restless,  resolute  and  deep, 
Too  deep  to  flow  like  shallow  fount 
Of  common  men  where  waters  mount; — 
Fierce,  lumined  eyes,  where  flames  might  rise 
Instead  of  flood,  and  flash  and  sweep — 
Strange  eyes,  that  look'd  unsatisfied 
With  all  things  fair  or  otherwise; 
As  if  his  inmost  soul  had  cried 
All  time  for  something  yet  unseen, 
Some  long-desired  thing  denied. 


142  THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


V. 

Below  the  overhanging  boughs 
The  oars  lay  idle  at  the  last; 
Yet  long  he  look'd  for  hostile  prows 
From  out  the  wood  and  down  the  stream. 
They  came  not,  and  he  came  to  dream 
Pursuit  abandon'd,  danger  past. 

He  fell'd  the  oak,  he  built  a  home 
Of  new-hewn  wood  with  busy  hand, 
And  said,  "  My.  wanderings  are  told," 
And  said,  "  No  more  by  sea,  by  land, 
Shall  I  break  rest,  or  drift,  or  roam, 
For  I  am  worn,  and  I  grow  old." 

And  there,  beside  that  surging  tide, 
Where  grey  waves  meet,  and  wheel,  and  strike, 
The  man  sat  down  as  satisfied 
To  sit  and  rest  unto  the  end; 
As  if  the  strong  man  here  had  found 
A  sort  of  brother  in  the  sea, — 
This  surging,  sounding  majesty 
Of  troubled  water,  so  profound, 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  143 

So  sullen,  strong,  and  lion-like, 
So  sinuous  and  foamy  bound. 

Hast  seen  Missouri  cleave  the  wood 
In  sounding  whirlpools  to  the  sea? 
What  soul  hath  known  such  majesty? 
What  man  stood  by  and  understood? 


VI. 

Then  long  the  long  oars  idle  lay. 
The  cabin's  smoke  came  forth  and  curl'd 
Right  lazily  from  river  brake, 
And  Time  went  by  the  other  way. 
And  who  was  she,  the  strong  man's  pride, 
This  one  fair  woman  of  his  world, 
A  captive?     Bride,  or  not  a  bride? 
Her  eyes,  men  say,  grew  sad  and  dim 
With  watching  from  the  river's  rim, 
As  waiting  for  some  face  denied. 

Yea,  who  was  she? — none  ever  knew. 
The  great,  strong  river  swept  around, 
The  cabins  nestled  in  its  bend, 


144  THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

But  kept  its  secrets.     Wild  'birds  flew 

In  bevies  by.     The  black  men  found 

Diversion  in  the  chase:  and  wide 

Old  Morgan  ranged  the  wood,  nor  friend 

Nor  foeman  ever  sought  his  side, 

Or  shared  his  forests  deep  and  dim, 

Or  cross'd  his  path  or  question'd  him. 

He  stood  as  one  who  found  and  named 
The  middle  world.     What  visions  flamed 
Athwart  the  west!     What  prophecies 
Were  his,  the  grey  old  man,  that  day 
Who  stood  alone  and  look'd  away, — 
Awest  from  out  the  waving  trees, 
Against  the  utter  sundown  seas. 


Alone  ofttime  be'side  the  stream 
He  stood  and  gazed  as  in  a  dream, — 
As  if  he  knew  a  life  unknown 
To  those  who' knew  him  thus  alone. 
His  eyes  were  grey  and  overborne 
By  shaggy  brows,  his  strength  was  shorn, 
Yet  still  he  ever  gazed  awest, 
As  one  that  would  not,  could  not  rest 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  145 

And  whence  came  he?  and  when  and  why? 
Men  question'd  men,  but  naught  was  known 
Save  that  he  roam'd  the  woods  alone, 
And  lived  alone  beneath  the  stir 
Of  leaves,  and  letting  life  go  by, 
Did  look  on  her  and  only  her. 

And  had  he  fled  with  bloody  hand? 
Or  had  he  loved  some  Helen  fair, 
And  battling  lost  both  land  and  town? 
Say,  did  he  see  his  walls  go  down, 
Then  choose  from  all  his  treasures  there 
This  love,  and  seek  some  other  land? 


VII. 

The  squirrels  chatter'd  in  the  leaves, 
The  turkeys  call'd  from  pawpaw  wood, 
The  deer  with  lifted  nostrils  stood, 
And  humming-birds  did  wind  and  weave, 
Swim  round  about,  dart  in  and  out, 
Through  fragrant  forest  hedge  made  red, 
Made  many-color'd  overhead 
By  climbing  blossoms  sweet  with  bee 

And  snow-white  rose  of  Cherokee. 

10 


146  THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 

The  frosts  came  by  and  touch'd  the  leaves, 
Then  time  hung  ices  on  the  eaves, 
Then  cushion  snows  possess'd  the  ground, 
And  so  the  seasons  kept  their  round; 
Yet  still  old  Morgan  went  and  came 
From  cabin  door  though  forest  dim, 
Through  wold  of   snows,  through    wood  of 

flame, 

Through  golden  Indian-summer  days, 
Hung  round  in  soft  September  haze, 
And  no  man  cross'd  or  questioned  him. 

Nay,  there  was  that  in  his  stern  air 
That  held  e'en  these  rude  men  aloof: 
None  came  to  share  the  broad-built  roof 
That  rose  so  fortress-like  beside 
The  -angry,  rushing,  sullen  tide, 
And  only  black  men  gather'd  there, 
The  old  man's  slaves,  in  dull  content, 
Black,  silent,  and  obedient. 

Then  men  push'd  westward    through   his 

wood, 

His  wild  beasts  fled,  and  now  he  stood 
Confronting  men.     He  had  endear'd 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 

No  man,  but  still  he  went  and  came 
Apart,  and  shook  his  beard  and  strode 
His  ways  alone,  and  bore  his  load, 
If  load  it  were,  apart,  alone. 
Then  men  grew  busy  with  a  name 
That  no  man  loved,  that  many  fear'd, 
And  rude  men  stoop'd,  and  cast  a  stone, 
As  at  some  statue  overthrown. 

Some  said  a  pirate  blown  by  night 
From  isles  of  calm  Caribbean  land, 
Who  left  his  comrades;  that  he  fled 
With  many  prices  on  his  head, 
And  that  he  bore  in  his  hot  flight 
The  gather'd  treasure  of  his  band, 
In  bloody  and  unholy  hand. 

Then  some  did  say  a  privateer, 
Then  others,  that  he  fled  from  fear, 
And  climb'd  the  mad  Missouri  far, 
To  where  the  friendly  forests  are; 
And  that  his  illy-gotten  gold 
Lay  sunken  in  his  black  boat's  hold. 
Then  others,  watching  his  fair  bride, 
Said,  "There  is  something  more  beside." 


148  THE    SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT. 

Some  said,  a  stolen  bride  was  she, 
And  that  her  lover  from  the  sea 
Lay  waiting  for  his  chosen  wife, 
And  that  a  day  of  reckoning 
Lay  waiting  for  this  grizzled  king, 


VIII. 

O  dark-eyed  Ina!     All  the  years 
Brought  her  but  solitude  and  tears. 
Lo!  ever  looking  out  she  stood 
Adown  the  wave,  adown  the  wood, 
Adown  the  strong  stream  to  the  south, 
Sad-faced,  and  sorrowful.     Her  mouth 
Push'd  out  so  pitiful.     Her  eyes 
Fill'd  full  of  sorrow,  or  surprise. 
O  sweet  child-face,  that  ever  gazed 
From  out  the  wood  and  down  the  wave 
O  eyes,  that  never  once  were  raised! 
O  mouth,  that  never  murmur  gave! 

Men  say  that  looking  from  her  place 
A  love  would  sometimes  light  her  face, 
As  if  sweet  recollections  stirr'd 
Her  heart  and  broke  its  loneliness, 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  149 

Like  far,  sweet  songs  that  come  to  us, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  they  are  not  heard, 
So  far,  so  faint,  they  fill  the  air, 
A  fragrance  falling  anywhere.. 

And  wasting  all  her  summer  years 
That  utter'd  only  through  her  tears, 
The  seasons  went,  and  still  she  stood 
For  ever  watching  down  the  wood. 

Yet  in  her  heart  there  held  a  strife 
With  all  this  wasting  of  sweet  life, 
That  none  who  have  not  lived  and  died — 
Held  up  the  two  hands  crucified 
Between  two  ways — can  understand. 
Men  went  and  came,  and  still  she  stood 
In  silence  watching  down  the  wood— 
Adown  the  wood  beyond  the  land, 
Her  hollow  face  upon  her  hand, 
Her  black,  abundant  hair  all  down 
About  her  loose,  ungather'd  gown. 

And  what  her  thought?  her  life  unsaid? 
Was  it  of  love?  of  hate?  of  him, 
The  tall,  dark  Southerner?     Her  head 


150  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT 

Bow'd  down.     The  day  fell  dim 
Upon  her  eyes.     She  bow'd,  she  slept. 
She  waken'd  then,  and  waking  wept. 


IX. 

The  black-eyed  bushy  squirrels  ran 
Like  shadows  shatter'd  through  the  boughs; 
The  gallant  robin  chirp'd  his  vows, 
The  far-off  pheasant  thrumm'd  his  fan, 
A  thousand  blackbirds  were  a-wing 
In  walnut-top,  and  it  was  Spring. 

Old  Morgan  left  his  cabin  door, 
And  one  sat  watching  as  of  yore; 
But  why  turn'd  Morgan's  face  as  white 
As  his  white  beard?     A  bird  aflight, 
A  squirrel  peering  through  the  trees, 
Saw  some  one  silent  steal  away 
Like  darkness  from  the  face  of  day, 
Saw  two  black  eyes  look  back,  and  these 
Saw  her  hand  beckon  through  the  trees. 

Ay!  they  have  come,  the  sun-brown'd  men, 
To  beard  old  Morgan  in  his  den. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  151 

It  matters  little  who  they  are, 
These  silent  men  from  isles  afar; 
And  truly  no  one  cares  or  knows 
What  be  their  merit  or  demand; 
It  is  enough  for  this  rude  land — 
At  least,  it  is  enough  for  those, 
The  loud  of  tongue  and  rude  of  hand — 
To  know  that  they  are  Morgan's  foes. 

Proud  Morgan!     More  than  tongue  can  tell 
He  loved  that  woman  watching  there, 
That  stood  in  her  dark  stream  of  hair, 
That  stood  and  dream'd  as  in  a  spell, 
And  look'd  so  fix'd  and  far  away. 
And  who,  that  loveth  woman  well, 
Is  wholly  bad?  be  who  he  may. 

Ay!  we  have  seen  these  Southern  men, 
These  sun-brown'd  men  from  island  shore, 
In  this  same  land,  and  long  before. 
They  do  not  seem  so  lithe  as  then, 
They  do  not  look  so  tall,  and  they 
Seem  not  so  many  as  of  old. 
But  that  same  resolute  and  bold 
Expression  of  unbridled  will, 


152  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

That  even  Time  must  half  obey, 
Is  with  them  and  is  of  them  still. 

They  do  not  counsel  the  decree 
Of  court  or  council,  where  they  drew 
Their  breath,  nor  law  nor  order  knew, 
Save  but  the  strong  hand  of  the  strong; 
Where  each  stood  up,  avenged  his  wrong, 
Or  sought  his  death  all  silently. 
They  watch  along  the  wave  and  wood, 
They  heed,  but  haste  not.     Their  estate, 
Whate'er  it  be,  can  bide  and  wait, 
Be  it  open  ill  or  hidden  good. 
No  law  for  them!     For  they  have  stood 
With  steel,  and  writ  their  rights  in  blood; 
And  now,  whatever  'tis  they  seek, 
Whatever  be  their  dark  demand, 
Why,  they  will  make  it,  hand  to  hand, 
Take  time  and  patience:  Greek  to  Greek. 


x. 

Like  blown  and  snowy  wintry  pine, 
Old  Morgan  stoop'd  his  head  and  pass'd 
•Within  his  cabin  door.     Recast 


THE   SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT.  153 

A  great  arm  out  to  men,  made  sign, 
Then  turn'd  to  Ina;  stood  beside 
A  time,  then  turn'd  and  strode  the  floor, 
Stopp'd  short,  breathed  sharp,  threw  wide  the 

door, 

Then  gazed  beyond  the  murky  tide, 
Toward  where  the  forky  peaks  divide. 

He  took  his  beard  in  his  right  hand, 
Then  slowly  shook  his  grizzled  head 
And  trembled,  but  no  word  he  said. 
His  thought  was  something  more  than  pain; 
Upon  the  seas,  upon  the  land 
He  knew  he  should  not  rest  again. 

He  turn'd  to  her;  but  then  once  more 
Quick  turn'd,  and  through  the  oaken  door 
He  sudden  pointed  to  the  west. 
His  eye  resumed  its  old  command, 
The  conversation  of  his  hand' 
It  was  enough:  she  knew  the  rest. 

He  turn'd, hestoop'd,  and  smooth'dher  hair, 
As  if  to  smooth  away  the  care 
From  his  great  heart,  with  his  left  hand. 


154  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

His  right  hand  hitch'd  the  pistol  round 
That  dangled  at  his  belt.     The  sound 
Of  steel  to  him  was  melody 
More  sweet  than  any  song  of  sea. 
He  touch'd  his  pistol,  push'd  his  lips, 
Then  tapp'd  it  with  his  finger-tips, 
And  toy'd  with  it  as  harper's  hand 
Seeks  out  the  chords  when  he  is  sad 
And  purposeless.     At  last  he  had 
Resolve.     In  haste  he  touch'd  her  hair, 
Made  sign  she  should  arise — prepare 
For  some  long  journey,  then  again 
He  look'd  awest  toward  the  plain: 
Toward  the  land  of  dreams  and  space, 

The  land  of  silences,  the  land 
Of  shoreless  deserts  sown  with  sand, 
Where  Desolation's  dwelling  is: 
The  land  where,  wondering,  you  say, 
What  dried-up  shoreless  sea  is  this? 
Where,  wandering,  from  day  to  day 
You  say,  To-morrow  sure  we  come 
To  rest  in  some  cool  resting-place, 
And  yet  you  journey  on  through  space 
While  seasons  pass,  and  are  struck  dumb 
With  marvel  at  the  distances. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  155 

Yea,  he  would  go.     Go  utterly 
Away,  and  from  all  living  kind; 
Pierce  through  the  distances,  and  find 
New  lands.     He  had  outlived  his  race. 
He  stood  like  some  eternal  tree 
That  tops  remote  Yosemite, 
And  cannot  fall.     He  turn'd  his  face 
Again  and  contemplated  space. 


And  then  he  raised  his  hand  to  vex 
His  beard,  stood  still,  and  there  fell  down 
Great  drops  from  some  unfrequent  spring, 
And  streak'd  his  chanell'd  cheeks  sun-brown, 
And  ran  uncheck'd,  as  one  who  recks 
Nor  joy,  nor  tears,  nor  anything. 

And  then,  his  broad  breast  heaving  deep, 
Like  some  dark  sea  in  troubled  sleep, 
Blown  round  with  groaning  ships  and  wrecks, 
He  sudden  roused  himself,  and  stood 
With  all  the  strength  of  his  stern  mood, 
Then  call'd  his  men,  and  bade  them  go 
And  bring  black  steeds  with  banner'd  necks, 
And  strong  like  burly  buffalo. 


156  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 


XI. 


The  mighty,  stolid,  still,  black  men 
Their  black-maned  horses  silent  drew 
Through  solemn  wood.     One  midnight  when 
The  curl'd  moon  tipp'd  her  horn,  and  threw 
A  black  oak's  shadow  slant  across 
A  low  mound  hid  in  leaves  and  moss, 
Old  Morgan  cautious  came  and  drew 
From  out  the  ground,  as  from  a  grave, 
Great  bags  all  copper-bound  and  old, 
And  fill'd,  men  say,  with  pirates'  gold. 


And  then  they,  silent  as  a  dream, 

In  long  black  shadow  cross'd  the  stream. 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude  unrest! 

What  shocks!  what  half-shaped  armies  met! 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 

With  all  its  steely  sinews  set 

Against  the  living  forests.     Hear 

The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer, 

The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 

As  if  some  half-check'd  army  reels, 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  157 

Recoils,  redoubles,  comes  again, 
Loud  sounding  like  a  hurricane. 

O  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 
So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built! 
A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 
Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 
Your  blood's  inheritance. . .  .Your  heirs 
Know  not  your  tombs.      The  great  plough- 
shares 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 
Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 
And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 
Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs 
While  through  the  green  ways  wandering 
Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 
White  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 
Above  your  lowly  levell'd  tombs; 
And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 
She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why 
The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 
And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 
And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester, 
Has  gather'd  you  from  wood  and  plain. 


158  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

We  call  to  you  again,  again; 

The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 

Comes  back  in  answer.     Deep  and  wide 

The  wheels  of  progress  have  passed  on; 

The  silent  pioneer  is  gone. 

His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 

And  now  we  push  the  memories 

Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 

In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside. 


XII. 

And  all  was  life  at  morn,  but  one, 
The  tall  old  sea-king,  grim  and  grey, 
Look'd  back  to  where  his  cabins  lay, 
And  seem'd  to  hesitate.     He  rose 
At  last,  as  from  his  dream's  repose, 
From  rest  that  counterfeited  rest, 
And  set  his  blown  beard  to  the  west; 
And  rode  against  the  setting  sun, 
Along  the  levels  vast  and  dun. 

His  steeds  were  steady,  strong,  and  fleet, 
The  best  in  all  the  wide  west  land, 
Their  manes  were  in  the  air,  their  feet 


THE    SHIP   IN   THE  DESERT.  159 

Seem'd  scarce  to  touch  the  flying  sand. 

They  rode  like  men  gone  mad,  they  fled, 
All  day  and  many  days  they  ran, 
And  in  the  rear  a  grey  old  man 
Kept  watch,  and  ever  turn'd  his  head 
Half  eager  and  half  angry,  back 
Along  their  dusty  desert  track. 

And  one  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spoke, 
They  rode,  they  swallowed  up  the  plain; 
The  sun  sank  low,  he  look'd  again, 
With  lifted  hand  and  shaded  eyes. 
Then  far  arear  he  saw  uprise, 
As  if  from  giant's  stride  or  stoke, 
Dun  dust,  like  puffs  of  battle-smoke. 

He  turn'd,  his  left  hand  clutch'd  the  rein, 
He  struck  hard  west  his  high  right  hand, 
His  arms  were  like  the  limbs  of  oak; 
They  knew  too  well  the  man's  command, 
They  mounted,  plunged  ahead  again, 
And  one  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spoke. 

They  climb'd  the  rock-built  breasts  of  earth, 
The  Titan-fronted,  blowy  steeps 


l6o  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

That  cradled  Time.     Where  .freedom  keeps 
Her  flag  of  white  blown  stars  unfurl'd, 
They  turn'd  about,  they  saw  the  birth 
Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  world; 
Again  they  gazed;  they  saw  the  face 
Of  God,  and  named  it  boundless  space. 

And  they  descended  and  did  roam 
Through  levell'd  distances  set  around 
By  room.     They  saw  the  Silences 
Move  by  and  beckon;  saw  the  forms, 
The  very  beards,  of  burly  storms, 
And  heard  them  talk  like  sounding  seas. 
On  unnamed  heights,  bleak-blown  and  brown, 
And  torn  like  battlements  of  Mars, 
They  saw  the  darknesses  come  down, 
Like  curtains  loosen'd  from  the  dome 
Of  God's  cathedral,  built  of  stars. 

They  pitch'd  the  tent  where  rivers  run 
All  foaming  to  the  west,  and  rush 
As  if  to  drown  the  falling  sun. 
They  saw  the  snowy  mountains  roll'd, 
And  heaved  along  the  nameless  lands 
Like  mighty  billows;  saw  the  gold 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  l6l 

Of  awful  sunsets;  felt  the  hush 
Of  heaven  when  the  day  sat  down, 
And  drew  about  his  mantle  brown, 
And  hid  his  face  in  dusky  hands. 

The  long  and  lonesome  nights!  the  tent 
That  nestled  soft  in  sweep  of  grass, 
The  hills  against  the  firmament 
Where  scarce  the  moving  moon  could  pass; 
The  cautious  camp,  the  smother'd  light, 
The  silent  sentinel  at  night! 

The  wild  beasts  howling  from  the  hill; 
The  savage  prowling  swift  and  still, 
And  bended  as  a  bow  is  bent. 
Tne  arrow  sent;  the  arrow  spent 
And  buried  in  its  bloody  place, 
The  dead  man  lying  on  his  face! 

The  clouds  of  dust,  their  cloud  by  day; 
Their  pillar  of  unfailing  fire 
The  far  North  Star.    And  high,  and  higher — 
They  climb'd  so  high  it  seemed  eftsoon 
That  they  must  face  the  falling  moon, 
That  like  some  flame-lit  ruin  lay 

Thrown  down  before  their  weary  way. 
11 


162  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

They  learn'd  to  read  the  sign  of  storms, 
The  moon's  wide  circles,  sunset  bars, 
And  storm-provoking  blood  and  flame; 
And,  like  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  came 
At  night  to  name  the  moving  stars. 
In  heaven's  face  they  pictured  forms 
Of  beasts,  of  fishes  of  the  sea. 
They  watch'd  the  Great  Bear  wearily 
Rise  up  and  drag  his  clinking  chain 
Of  stars  around  the  starry  main. 


XIII. 

And  why  did  these  same  sun-burnt  men 
Let  Morgan  gain  the  plain,  and  then 
Pursue  him  ever  where  he  fled? 
Mostlike  they  sought  his  gold  alone, 
And  fear'd  to  make  their  quarrel  known 
Lest  it  should  keep  its  secret  bed; 
Mostlike  they  thought  to  best  prevail 
And  conquer  with  united  hands 
Alone  upon  the  lonesome  sands; 
Mostlike  they  had  as  much  to  dread; 
Mostlike— but  I  must  tell  my  tale. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  163 

And  still  old  Morgan  sought  the  west; 
The  sea,  the  utmost  sea,  and  rest. 
He  climb'd,  descended,  climb'd  again, 
Until  he  stood  at  last  as  lone, 
As  solitary  and  unknown, 
As  some  lost  ship  upon  the  main. 

O  there  was  grandeur  in  his  air, 
An  old-time  splendor  in  his  eye, 
When  he  had  climb'd  at  last  the  high 
And  rock-built  bastions  of  the  plain, 
And  thrown  a-back  his  blown  white  hair, 
And  halting  turn'd  to  look  again. 

And  long,  from  out  his  lofty  place, 
He  look'd  far  down  the  fading  plain 
For  his  pursuers,  but  in  vain. 
Yea,  he  was  glad.     Across  his  face 
A  careless  smile  was  seen  to  play, 
The  first  for  many  a  stormy  day. 

He  turn'd  to  Ina,  dark,  yet  fair 
As  some  sad  twilight;  touch'd  her  hair, 
Stoop'd  low,  and  kiss'd  her  silently, 
Then  silent  held  her  to  his  breast. 


164  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

Then  waved  command  to  his  black  men, 
Look'd  east,  then  mounted  slow,  and  then 
Led  leisurely  against  the  west. 

And  why  should  he  who  dared  to  die, 
Who  more  than  once  with  hissing  breath 
Had  set  his  teeth  and  pray'd  for  death, 
Have  fled  these  men,  or  wherefore  fly 
Before  them  now?  why  not  defy? 

His  midnight  men  were  strong  and  true, 
And  not  unused  to  strife,  and  knew 
The  masonry  of  steel  right  well, 
And  all  its  signs  that  lead  to  hell. 

It  might  have  been  his  youth  had  wrought 
Some  wrongs  his  years  would  now  repair, 
That  made  him  fly  and  still  forbear; 
It  might  have  been  he  only  sought 
To  lead  them  to  some  fatal  snare, 
And  let  them  die  by  piecemeal  there. 

I  trow  it  was  not  shame  or  fear 
Of  any  man  or  any  thing 
That  death  in  any  shape  might  bring, 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  165 

It  might  have  been  some  lofty  sense 
Of  his  own  truth  and  innocence, 
And  virtues  lofty  and  severe — 
Nay,  nay!  what  need  of  reasons  here? 

They  climb'd  to  fringe  of  tossing  trees 
That  bound  a  mountain's  brow  like  bay, 
And  through  the  fragrant  boughs  a  breeze 
Blew  salt-flood  freshness.     Far  away, 
From  mountain  brow  to  desert  base 
Lay  chaos,  space,  unbounded  space, 
In  one  vast  belt  of  purple  bound. 
The  black  men  cried,  "  The  sea!"  They  bow'd 
Black,  woolly  heads  in  hard  black  hands. 
They  wept  for  joy.     They  laugh'd,  and  broke 
The  silence  of  an  age,  and  spoke 
Of  rest  at  last;  and,  grouped  in  bands, 
They  threw  their  long  black  arms  about 
Each  other's  necks,  and  laughed  aloud, 
Then  wept  again  with  laugh  and  shout. 

Yet  Morgan  spake  no  word,  but  led 
His  band  with  oft-averted  head 
Right  through  the  cooling  trees,  till  he 
Stood  out  upon  the  lofty  brow 


166  THE    SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT. 

And  mighty  mountain  wall.     And  now 
The  men  who  shouted,  "Lo,  the  sea!" 
Rode  in  the  sun;  but  silently: 
Stood  in  the  sun,  then  look'd  below. 
They  look'd  but  once,  then  look'd  away, 
Then  look'd  each  other  in  the  face. 
They  could  not  lift  their  brows,  nor  say, 
But  held  their  heads,  nor  spake,  for  lo! 
Nor  sea,  nor  voice  of  sea,  nor  breath 
Of  sea,  but  only  sand  and  death, 
And  one  eternity  of  space. 


XIV. 

Old  Morgan  eyed  his  men,  look'd  back 
Against  the  groves  of  tamarack. 
Then  tapp'd  his  stirrup-foot,  and  stray'd 
His  broad  left  hand  along  the  mane 
Of  his  strong  steed,  and  careless  play'd 
His  fingers  through  the  silken  skein. 

And  then  he  spurr'd  him  to  her  side, 
And  reach'd  his  hand  and  leaning  wide, 
He  smiling  push'd  her  falling  hair 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT.  167 

Back  from  her  brow,  and  kiss'd  her  there. 

Yea,  touch'd  her  softly,  as  if  she 

Had  been  some  priceless,  tender  flower; 

Yet  touch/'d  her  as  one  taking  leave 

Of  his  one  love  in  lofty  tower 

Before  descending  to  the  sea 

Of  battle  on  his  battle  eve. 

A  distant  shout!  quick  oaths!  alarms!  . 
The  black  men  start  up  suddenly, 
Stand  in  the  stirrup,  clutch  their  arms, 
And  bare  bright  arms  all  instantly. 
But  he,  he  slowly  turns,  and  he 
Looks  all  his  full  soul  in  her  face. 
He  does  not  shout,  he  does  not  say, 
But  sits  serenely  in  his  place 
A  time,  then  slowly  turns,  looks  back 
Between  the  trim-bough'd  tamarack, 
And  up  the  winding  mountain  way, 
To  where  the  long,  strong  grasses  lay. 

He  raised  his  glass  in  his  two  hands, 
Then  in  his  left  hand  let  it  fall, 
Then  seem'd  to  count  his  fingers  o'er, 
Then  reach'd  his  glass,  waved  cold  commands, 


1 68  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

Then  tapp'd  his  stirrup  as  before, 
Stood  in  the  stirrup  stern  and  tall, 
Then  ran  his  hand  along  the  mane 
Half  nervous-like,  and  that  was  ajl. 

And  then  he  turn'd,  and  smiled  half  sad, 
Half  desperate,  then  hitch'd  his  steel; 
Then  all  his  stormy  presence  had, 
As  if  he  kept  once  more  his  keel 
On  listless  seas  where  breakers  reel. 

He  toss'd  again  his  iron  hand 
Above  the  deep,  steep  desert  space, 
Above  the  burning  seas  of  sand, 
And  look'd  his  black  men  in  the  face. 
They  spake  not,  nor  look'd  back  again. 
They  struck  the  heel,  they  clutch'd  the  rein, 
And  down  the  darkling  plunging  steep 
They  dropp'd  toward  the  dried-up  deep. 

Below!     It  seem'd  a  league  below, 
The  black  men  rode,  and  she  rode  well, 
Against  the  gleaming,  sheening  haze 
That  shone  like  some  vast  sea  ablaze— 
That  seem'd  to  gleam,  to  glint,  to  glow, 
As  if  it  mark'd  the  shores  of  hell. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  169 

Then  Morgan  stood  alone,  look'd  back 
From  off  the  fierce  wall  where  he  stood, 
And  watch'd  his  dusk  approaching  foe. 
He  saw  him  creep  along  his  track, 
Saw  him  descending  from  the  wood, 
And  smiled  to  see  how  worn  and  slow. 

Then  when  his  foemen  hounding  came 
In  pistol-shot  of  where  he  stood, 
He  wound  his  hand  in  his  steed's  mane, 
And  plunging  to  the  desert  plain, 
Threw  back  his  white  beard  like  a  cloud, 
And  looking  back  did  shout  aloud 
Defiance  like  a  stormy  flood, 
And  shouted  "  Vasques!  "  called  his  name, 
And  dared  him  to  the  desert  flame. 

A  cloud  of  dust  far  down  the  steep, 
Where  scarce  a  whirling  hawk  would  sweep 
That  cloud  his  foes  had  follow'd  fast, 
And  Morgan  like  a  cloud  had  pass'd, 
Yet  pass'd  like  some  proud  king  of  old; 
And  now  dark  Vasques  could  not  hold 
Control  of  his  one  wild  desire 
To  meet  old  Morgan,  in  his  ire. 


I/O  THE   SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT. 

And  Morgan  heard  his  oath  and  shout, 
And  Morgan  turn'd  his  head  once  more, 
And  wheel'd  his  stout  steed  short  about, 
Then  seem'd  to  count  their  numbers  o'er. 
And  then  his  right  hand  touch'd  his  steel, 
And  then  he  tapp'd  his  iron  heel, 
And  seemed  to  fight  with  thought.     At  last 
As  if  the  final  die  was  cast, 
And  cast  as  carelessly  as  one 
Would  toss  a  white  coin  in  the  sun, 
He  touched  his  rein  once  more,  and  then 
His  right  hand  laid  with  idle  heed 
Along  the  toss'd  mane  of  his  steed. 

Pursuer  and  pursued!  who  knows 
The  why  he  left  the  breezy  pine, 
The  fragrant  tamarack  and  vine, 
Red  rose  and  precious  yellow  rose! 
Nay,  Vasques  held  the  vantage  ground 
Above  him  by  the  wooded  steep, 
And  right  nor  left  no  passage  lay, 
And  there  was  left  him  but  that  way, — 
The  way  through  blood,  or  to  the  deep 
And  lonesome  deserts  far  profound, 
That  knew  not  sight  of  man,  nor  sound. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  1 

Hot  Vasques  stood  upon  the  rim, 
High,  bold,  and  fierce  with  crag  and  spire. 
He  saw  a  far  grey  eagle  swim, 
He  saw  a  black  hawk  wheel,  retire, 
And  shun  that  desert  wide  a-wing, 
But  saw  no  other  living  thing. 

And  then  he  turn'd  and  shook  his  head. 
"  And  shall  we  turn  aside,"  he  said, 
"  Or  dare  this  hell?  "     The  men  stood  still 
As  leaning  on  his  sterner  will. 
And  then  he  stopp'd  and  turn'd  again, 
And  held  his  broad  hand  to  his  brow, 
And  look'd  intent  and  eagerly. 
The  far  white  levels  of  the  plain 
Flash'd  back  like  billows.     Even  now 
He  thought  he  saw  rise  up  'mid  sea, 
'Mid  space,  'mid  wastes,  'mid  nothingness, 
A  ship  becalm'd  as  in  distress. 

The  dim  sign  pass'd  as  suddenly, 
And  then  his  eager  eyes  grew  dazed, — 
He  brought  his  two  hands  to  his  face. 
Again  he  raised  his  head,  and  gazed 
With  flashing  eyes  and  visage  fierce 


1/2  THE   SHIP   IN   THE  DESERT. 

Far  out,  and  resolute  to  pierce 
The  far,  far,  faint  receding  reach 
Of  space  and  touch  its  farther  beach. 
He  saw  but  space,  unbounded  space; 
Eternal  space  and  nothingness, 

Then  all  wax'd  anger'd  as  they  gazed 
Far  out  upon  the  shoreless  land, 
And  clench'd  their  doubled  hands  and  raised 
Their  long  bare  arms,  but  utter'd  not. 
At  last  one  started  from  the  band, 
He  raised  his  arm,  push'd  back  his  sleeve, 
Push'd  bare  his  arm,  strode  up  and  down, 
With  hat  push'd  back.   Then  flush'd  and  hot 
He  shot  sharp  oaths  like  cannon  shot. 

Then  Vasques  was  resolved,  his  form 
Seem'd  like  a  pine  blown  rampt  with  storm, 
He  mounted,  clutch'd  his  reins,  and  then 
Turn'd  sharp  and  savage  to  his  men; 
And  silent  then  led  down  the  way  - 
To  night  that  knows  not  night  or  day. 

xv. 
How  broken  plunged  the  steep  descent! 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  1/3 

How  barren!     Desolate,  and  rent 

By  earthquake's  shock,  the  land  lay  dead, 

With  dust  and  ashes  on  its  head. 

'Twas  as  some  old  world  overthrown 
Where  Theseus  fought  and  Sappho  dream'd 
In  aeons  ere  they  touch'd  this  land, 
And  found  their  proud  souls  foot  and  hand 
Bound  to  the  flesh  and  stung  with  pain. 
An  ugly  skeleton  it  seem'd 
Of  its  old  self.     The  fiery  rain 
Of  red  volcanoes  here  had  sown 
The  death  of  cities  of  the  plain. 
Ay,  vanquish'd  quite  and  overthrown, 
And  torn  with  thunder-stroke,  and  strown 
With  cinders,  lo!  the  dead  earth  lay 
As  waiting  for  the  judgment  day. 
Why,  tamer  men  had  turn'd  and  said, 
On  seeing  this,  with  start  and  dread, 
And  whisper'd  each  with  gather'd  breath. 
"We  come  on  the  confines  of  death." 

They  wound  below  a  savage  bluff 
That  lifted,  from  its  sea-mark'd  base, 
Great  walls  with  characters  cut  rough 


174  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

And  deep  by  some  long-perish'd  race; 

And  great,  strange  beasts  unnamed,  unknown, 

Stood  hewn  and  limn'd  upon  the  stone. 

A  mournful  land  as  land  can  be 
Beneath  their  feet  in  ashes  lay, 
Beside  that  dread  and  dried-up  sea; 
A  city  older  than  that  grey 
And  grass-grown  tower  builded  when 
Confusion  cursed  the  tongues  of  men. 

Beneath,  before,  a  city  lay 
That  in  her  majesty  had  shamed 
The  wolf-nursed  conqueror  of  old; 
Below,  before,  and  far  away, 
There  reach'd  the  white  arm  of  a  bay, 
A  broad  bay  shrunk  to  sand  and  stone, 
Where  ships  had  rode  and  breakers  roll'd 
When  Babylon  was  yet  unnamed, 
And  Nimrod's  hunting-fields  unknown. 

Some  serpents  slid  from  out  the  grass 
That  grew  in  tufts  by  shatter'd  stone, 
Then  hid  beneath  some  broken  mass 
That  Time  had  eaten  as  a  bone 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  I?5 

Is  eaten  by  some  savage  beast; 
An  everlasting  palace  feast. 

A  dull-eyed  rattlesnake  that  lay 
All  loathsome,  yellow-skinn'd,  and  slept, 
Coil'd  tight  as  pine-knot,  in  the  sun, 
With  flat  head  through  the  centre  run, 
Struck  blindly  back,  then  rattling  crept 
Flat-bellied  down  the  dusty  way  .  .  . 
'Twas  all  the  dead  land  had  to  say. 

Two  pink-eyed  hawks,  wide-wing'd  and  grey, 
Scream'd  savagely,  and,  circling  high, 
And  screaming  still  in  mad  dismay, 
Grew  dim  and  died  against  the  sky  .  .  . 
Twas  all  the  heavens  had  to  say. 

The  sun  rose  right  above,  and  fell 
As  falling  molten  as  they  pass'd. 
Some  low-built  junipers  at  last, 
The  last  that  o'er  the  desert  look'd, 
Thick-bough'd,  and  black  as  shapes  of  hell, 
Where  dumb  owls  sat  with  bent  bills  hook'd 
Beneath  their  wings  awaiting  night, 
Rose  up,  then  faded  from  the  sight: 


176  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

Then  not  another  living  thing 
Crept  on  the  sand  or  kept  the  wing. 

White  Azteckee!     Dead  Azteckee! 
Vast  sepulchre  of  buried  sea! 
What  dim  ghosts  hover  on  thy  rim, 
What  stately-manner'd  shadows  swim 
Along  thy  gleaming  waste  of  sands 
And  shoreless  limits  of  dead  lands? 


Dread  Azteckee!     Dead  Azteckee! 
White  place  of  ghosts,  give  up  thy  dead: 
Give  back  to  Time  thy  buried  hosts! 
The  new  world's  tawny  Ishmaelite, 
The  roving  tent-born  Shoshonee, 
Who  shuns  thy  shores  as  death,  at  night 
Because  thou  art  so  white,  so  dread, 
Because  thou  art  so  ghostly  white, 
Has  named  thy  shores  "  the  place  of  ghosts.'' 

Thy  white,  uncertain  sands  are  white 
With  bones  of  thy  unburied  dead, 
That  will  not  perish  from  the  sight. 
They  drown,  but  perish  not— ah  me! 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  I// 

What  dread  unsightly  sights  are  spread 
Along  this  lonesome,  dried-up  sea? 

Old,  hoar,  and  dried-up  sea!  so  old! 
So  strown  with  wealth,  so  sown  with  gold! 
Yea,  thou  art  old  and  hoary  white 
With  time,  and  ruin  of  all  things; 
And  on  thy  lonesome  borders  night 
Sits  brooding  as  with  wounded  wings.  ' 

The  winds  that  toss'd  thy  waves  and  blew 
Across  thy  breast  the  blowing  sail, 
And  cheer'd  the  hearts  of  cheering  crew 
From  farther  seas,  no  more  prevail. 
Thy  white-wall'd  cities  all  lie  prone. 
With  but  a  pyramid,  a  stone, 
Set  head  and  foot  in  sands  to  tell 
The  tired  stranger  where  they  fell. 

The  patient  ox  that  bended  low 
His  neck,  and  drew  slow  up  and  down 
Thy  thousand   freights   through    rock-built 

town 
Is  now  the  free-born  buffalo. 

No  longer  of  the  timid  fold, 
12 


/8  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

The  mountain  ram  leaps  free  and  bold 
His  high-built  summit,  and  looks  down 
From  battlements  of  buried  town. 

Thine  ancient  steeds  know  not  the  rein; 
They  lord  the  land;  they  come,  they  go 
At  will;  they  laugh  at  man;  they  blow 
A  cloud  of  black  steeds  o'er  the  plain. 
Thy  monuments  lie  buried  now, 
The  ashes  whiten  on  thy  brow, 
The  winds,  the  waves,  have  drawn  away — 
The  very  wild  man  dreads  to  stay. 


XVI. 

Away  upon  the  sandy  seas, 
The  gleaming,  burning,  boundless  plain. 
How  solemn-like,  how  still,  as  when 
The  mighty  minded  Genoese 
Drew  three  slim  ships  and  led  his  men 
From  land  they  might  not  meet  again. 

The  black  men  rode  in  front  by  two, 
The  fair  one  follow'd  close,  and  kept 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  I/Q 

Her  face  held  down  as  if  she  wept; 
But  Morgan  kept  the  rear,  and  threw 
His  flowing,  swaying  beard  still  back 
In  watch  along  their  lonesome  track. 

The  weary  day  fell  down  to  rest, 
A  star  upon  his  mantled  breast, 
Ere  scarce  the  sun  fell  out  of  space, 
And  Venus  glimmer'd  in  his  place. 
Yea,  all  the  stars  shone  just  as  fair, 
And  constellations  kept  their  round, 
And  look'd  from  out  the  great  profound, 
And  march'd,  and  countermarch'd,  and  shone 
Upon  that  desolation  there — 
Why,  just  the  same  as  if  proud  man 
Strode  up  and  down  array'd  in  gold 
And  purple  as  in  days  of  old, 
And  reckon'd  all  of  his  own  plan, 
Or  made  at  least  for  man  alone. 

Yet  on  push'd  Morgan  silently, 
And  straight  as  strong  ship  on  a  sea; 
And  ever  as  he  rode  there  lay 
To  right,  to  left,  and  in  his  way, 
Strange  objects  looming  in  the  dark, 
Some  like  a  mast,  or  ark,  or  bark. 


l8C  THE    SHIP    IN   THE   DESERT. 

And  things  half-hidden  in  the  sand 
Lay  down  before  them  where  they  pass'd,- 
A  broken  beam,  half-buried  mast, 
A  spar  or  bar,  such  as  might  be 
Blown  crosswise,  tumbled  on  the  strand 
Of  some  sail-crowded  stormy  sea. 

All  night  by  moon,  by  morning  star, 
The  still,  black  men  still  kept  their  way; 
All  night  till  morn,  till  burning  day, 
Hard  Vasques  follow'd  fast  and  far. 

The  sun  is  high,  the  sands  are  hot 
To  touch,  and  all  the  tawny  plain 
Sinks  white  and  open  as  they  tread 
And  trudge,  with  half-averted  head, 
As  if  to  swallow  them  in  sand. 
They  look,  as  men  look  back  to  land 
When  standing  out  to  stormy  sea, 
But  still  keep  pace  and  murmur  not; 
Keep  stern  and  still  as  destiny. 

It  was  a  sight!     A  slim  dog  slid 
White-mouth'd  and  still  along  the  sand, 
The  pleading  picture  of  distress. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  l8l 

He  stopp'd,  leap'd  up  to  lick  a  hand, 
A  hard,  black  hand  that  sudden  chid 
Him  back,  and  check'd  his  tenderness. 
Then  when  the  black  man  turn'd  his  head, 
His  poor,  mute  friend  had  fallen  dead. 

The  very  air  hung  white  with  heat, 
And  white,  and  fair,  and  far  away 
A  lifted,  shining  snow-shaft  lay 
As  if  to  mock  their  mad  retreat. 
The  white,  salt  sands  beneath  their  feet 
Did  make  the  black  men  loom  as  grand, 
From  out  the  lifting,  heaving  heat, 
As  they  rode  sternly  on  and  on, 
As  any  bronze  men  in  the  land 
That  sit  their  statue  steeds  upon. 

The  men  were  silent  as  men  dead. 
The  sun  hung  centred  overhead, 
Nor  seem'd  to  move.     It  molten  hung 
Like  some  great  central  burner  swung 
From  lofty  beams  with  golden  bars 
In  sacristy  set  round  with  stars. 

Why,  flame  could  hardly  be  more  hot; 
Yet  on  the  mad  pursuer  came 


l82  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

Across  the  gleaming,  yielding  ground, 
Right  on,  as  if  he  fed  on  flame, 
Right  on  until  the  mid-day  found 
.     The  man  within  a  pistol-shot. 

He  hail'd,  but  Morgan  answer'd  not; 
He  hail'd,  then  came  a  feeble  shot, 
And  strangely,  in  that  vastness  there, 
It  seem'd  to  scarcely  fret  the  air, 
But  fell  down  harmless  anywhere. 

He  fiercely  hail'd;  and  then  there  fell 
A  horse.     And  then  a  man  fell  down; 
And  in  the  sea-sand  seem'd  to  drown. 
Then  Vasques  cursed,  but  scarce  could  tell 
The  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  all 
In  mad  confusion  seem'd  to  fall. 

Yet  on  pushed  Morgan,  silent  on, 
And  as  he  rode,  he  lean'd  and  drew 
From  his  catenas  gold,  and  threw 
The  bright  coins  in  the  glaring  sun. 
But  Vasques  did  not  heed  a  whit, 
He  scarcely  deign'd  to  scowl  at  it. 

Again  lean'd  Morgan.     He  uprose, 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  183 

And  held  a  high  hand  to  his  foes, 
And  held  two  goblets  up,  and  one 
Did  shine  as  if  itself  a  sun. 
Then  leaning  backward  from  his  place, 
He  hurl'd  them  in  his  foeman's  face; 
Then  drew  again,  and  so  kept  on, 
Till  goblets,  gold,  and  all  were  gone. 

Yea,  strew'd  them  out  upon  the  sands 
As  men  upon  a  frosty  morn, 
In  Mississippi's  fertile  lands, 
Hurl  out  great  yellow  ears  of  corn, 
To  hungry  swine  with  hurried  hands. 
i 

Yet  still  hot  Vasques  urges  on, 
With  flashing  eye  and  flushing  cheek. 
What  would  he  have?  what  does  he  seek? 
He  does  not  heed  the  gold  a  whit, 
He  does  not  deign  to  look  at  it; 
But  now  his  gleaming  steel  is  drawn, 
And  now  he  leans,  would  hail  again, — 
He  opes  his  swollen  lips  in  vain. 

But  look  you!     See!     A  lifted  hand, 
And  Vasques  beckons  his  command. 


184  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

He  cannot  speak,  he  leans,  and  he 
Bends  low  upon  his  saddle-bow. 
And  now  his  blade  drops  to  his  knee, 
And  now  he  falters,  now  comes  on, 
And  now  his  head  is  bended  low; 
And  now  his  rein,  his  steel,  is  gone; 
Now  faint  as  any  child  is  he, 
And  now  his  steed  sinks  to  the  knee. 

The  sun  hung  molten  in  mid-space, 
Like  some  great  star  fix'd  in  its  place. 
From  out  the  gleaming  spaces  rose 
A  sheen  of  gossamer  and  danced, 
As  Morgan  slow  and  still  advanced 
Before  his  far-receding  foes. 
Right  on,  and  on,  the  still,  black  line 
Drove  straight  through  gleaming  sand  and 

shine, 

By  spar  and  beam  and  mast,  and  stray 
And  waif  of  sea  and  cast-away. 

The  far  peaks  faded  from  their  sight, 
The  mountain  walls  fell  down  like  night, 
And  nothing  now  was  to  be  seen 
Except  the  dim  sun  hung  in  sheen 


THE    SHIP   IN    THE  DESERT.  18$ 

Of  fairy  garments  all  blood-red, — 
The  hell  beneath,  the  hell  o'erhead. 

A  black  man  tumbled  from  his  steed. 
He  clutch'd  in  death  the  moving  sands, 
He  caught  the  hot  earth  in  his  hands, 
He  gripp'd  it,  held  it  hard  and  grim .... 
The  great,  sad  mother  did  not  heed 
His  hold,  but  pass'd  right  on  from  him. 


xvn. 

The  sun  seem'd  broken  loose  at  last, 
And  settled  slowly  to  the  west, 
Half-hidden  as  he  fell  to  rest, 
Yet,  like  the  flying  Parthian,  cast 
His  keenest  arrows  as  he  pass'd. 

On,  on,  the  black  men  slowly  drew 
Their  length  like  some  great  serpent  through 
The  sands,  and  left  a  hollow'd  groove: 
They  march'd,  they  scarcely  seem'd  to  move. 
How  patient  in  their  muffled  tread! 
How  like  the  dead  march  of  the  dead! 


186  THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

At  last  the  slow,  black  line  was  check'd, 
An  instant  only;  now  again 
It  moved,  it  falter'd  now,  and  now 
It  settled  in  its  sandy  bed, 
And  steeds  stood  rooted  to  the  plain. 
Then  all  stood  still,  and  men  somehow 
Look'd  down  and  with  averted  head; 
Look'd  down,  nor  dared  look  up,  nor  reck'd 
Of  anything,  of  ill  or  good, 
But  bow'd  and  stricken  still  they  stood. 

Like  some  brave  band  that  dared  the  fierce 
And  bristled  steel  of  gather'd  host, 
These  daring  men  had  dared  to  pierce 
This  awful  vastness,  dead  and  grey. 
And  now  at  last  brought  well  at  bay 
They  stood, — but  each  stood  to  his  post. 

Then  one  dismounted,  waved  a  hand, 
'Twas  Morgan's  stern  and  still  command. 
There  fell  a  clank,  like  loosen'd  chain, 
And  men  dismounting  loosed  the  rein. 
Then  every  steed  stood  loosed  and  free; 
And  some  stepp'd  slow  and  mute  aside, 
And  some  sank  to  the  sands  and  died; 
And  some  stood  still  as  shadows  be. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  187 

Old  Morgan  turn'd  and  raised  his  hand. 
And  laid  it  level  with  his  eyes, 
And  look'd  far  back  along  the  land. 
He  saw  a  dark  dust  still  uprise, 
Still  surely  tend  to  where  he  lay. 
He  did  not  curse,  he  did  not  say — 
He  did  not  even  look  surprise. 


Nay,  he  was  over-gentle  now; 
He  wiped  a  time  his  Titan  brow, 
Then  sought  dark  Ina  in  her  place, 
Put  out  his  arms,  put  down  his  face 
And  look'd  in  hers.     She  reach'd  her  hands, 
She  lean'd,  she  fell  upon  his  breast; 
He  reach'd  his  arms  around;  she  lay 
As  lies  a  bird  in  leafy  nest. 
And  he  look'd  out  across  the  sands, 
Then  bearing  her,  he  strode  away. 

Some  black  men  settled  down  to  rest, 
But  none  made  murmur  or  request. 
The  dead  were  dead,  and  that  were  best; 
The  living  leaning  follow'd  him, 
In  huddled  heaps,  all  hush'd  and  grim. 


188  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

The  day  through  high  mid-heaven  rode 
Across  the  sky,  the  dim,  red  day; 
And  on,  the  warlike  day-god  strode 
With  shoulder'd  shield  away,  away. 

The  savage,  warlike  day  bent  low, 
As  reapers  bend  in  gathering  grain, 
T    As  archer  bending  bends  yew  bow, 
And  flush'd  and  fretted  as  in  pain. 

Then  down  his  shoulder  slid  his  shield, 
So  huge,  so  awful,  so  blood-red 
And  batter'd  as  from  battle-field: 
It  settled,  sunk  to  his  left  hand, 
Sunk  down  and  down,  it  touch'd  the  sand; 
Then  day  along  the  land  lay  dead, 
Without  one  candle  at  his  head. 

And  now  the  moon  wheel'd  white  and  vast, 
A  round,  unbroken,  marbled  moon, 
And  touch'd  the  far,  bright  buttes  of  snow, 
Then  climb'd  their  shoulders  over  soon; 
And  there  she  seem'd  to  sit  at  last, 
To  hang,  to  hover  there,  to  grow, 
Grow  vaster  than  vast  peaks  of  snow. 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  189 

She  sat  the  battlements  of  time; 
She  shone  in  mail  of  frost  and  rime, 
A  time,  and  then  rose  up  and  stood 
In  heaven  in  sad  widowhood. 

« 

The  faded  moon  fell  wearily, 
And  then  the  sun  right  suddenly 
Rose  up  full  arm'd,  and  rushing  came 
Across  the  land  like  flood  of  flame. 

And  now  it  look'd  as  hills  uprose, 
High  push'd  against  the  arching  skies, 
As  if  to  meet  the  sudden  sun — 
Rose  sharp  from  out  the  sultry  dun, 
And  seem'd  to  hold  the  free  repose 
Of  lands  where  flow'ry  summits  rise, 
In  unfenced  fields  of  Paradise. 

The  black  men  look'd  up  from  the  sands 
Against  the  dim,  uncertain  skies, 
As  men  that  disbelieved  their  eyes, 
And  would  have  laugh'd;  they  wept  instead, 
With  shoulders  heaved,  with  bowing  head 
Hid  down  between  the  two  black  hands. 

They  stood  and  gazed.     Lo!  like  the  call 


IQO  THE    SHIP   IN   THE  DESERT. 

Of  spring-time  promises,  the  trees 
Lean'd  from  their  lifted  mountain  wall, 
And  stood  clear  cut  against  the  skies, 
As  if  they  grew  in  pistol-shot. 
Yet  all  the  mountains  answer'd  not, 
And  yet  there  came  no  cooling  breeze, 
Nor  soothing  sense  of  windy  trees. 

At  last  old  Morgan,  looking  through 
His  shaded  ringers,  let  them  go, 
And  let  his  load  fall  down  as  dead. 
He  groan'd,  he  clutch'd  his  beard  of  snow 
As  was  his  wont,  then  bowing  low, 
Took  up  his  life,  and  moaning  said, 
"Lord  Christ!  'tis  the  mirage,  and  we 
Stand  blinded  in  a  burning  sea." 


XVIII. 

Again  they  move,  but  where  or  how 
It  recks  them  little,  nothing  now. 
Yet  Morgan  leads  them  as  before, 
But  totters  now;  he  bends,  and  he 
Is  like  a  broken  ship  a-sea, — 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  19! 

A  ship  that  knows  not  any  shore, 
And  knows  it  shall  not  anchor  more. 

Some  leaning  shadows  crooning  crept 
Through  desolation,  crown'd  in  dust. 
And  had  the  mad  pursuer  kept 
His  path,  and  cherish'd  his  pursuit? 
There  lay  no  choice.     Advance,  he  must: 
Advance,  and  eat  his  ashen  fruit. 


on  and  on  old  Morgan  led. 
His  black  men  totter'd  to  and  fro,   . 
A  leaning,  huddled  heap  of  woe; 
Then  one  fell  down,  then  two  fell  dead; 
Yet  not  one  moaning  word  was  said. 
They  made  no  sign,  they  said  no  word, 
Nor  lifted  once  black,  helpless  hands; 
And  all  the  time  no  sound  was  heard 
Save  but  the  dull,  dead,  muffled  tread 
Of  shuffled  feet  in  shining  sands. 

Again  the  still  moon  rose  and  stood 
Above  the  dim,  dark  belt  of  wood, 
Above  the  buttes,  above  the  snow,- 
And  bent  a  sad,  sweet  face  below. 


IQ2  THE   SHIP   IN   THE  DESERT. 

She  reach'd  along  the  level  plain 
Her  long,  white  fingers.    Then  again 
She  reach'd,  she  touch'd  the  snowy  sands. 
Then  reach'd  far  out  until  she  touch'd 
A  heap  that  lay  with  doubled  hands, 
Reach'd  from  its  sable  self,  and  clutch'd 
With  death.    O  tenderly 
That  black,  that  dead  and  hollow  face 

Was  kiss'd  at  midnight What  if  I  say 

The  long,  white  moonbeams  reaching  there, 
Caressing  idle  hands  of  clay, 
And  resting  on  the  wrinkled  hair 
And  great  lips  push'd  in  silent  pout, 
Were  God's  own  fingers  reaching  out 
From  heaven  to  that  lonesome  place? 


XIX. 

By  waif  and  stray  and  cast-away, 
Such  as  are  seen  in  seas  withdrawn, 
Old  Morgan,  led  in  silence  on, 
And  sometimes  lifting  up  his  head, 

To  <;ui<lr  his  l<  ><  >1  st  i-ps  as  he  led, 

He  deem'd  he  saw  a  great  ship  lay 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  IQ3 

Her  keel  along  the  sea-wash'd  sand, 
As  with  her  captain's  old  command. 

The  stars  were  seal'd;  and  tken  a  haze 
Of  gossamer  fill'd  all  the  west, 
So  like  in  Indian  summer  days, 
And  veil'd  all  things.     And  then  the  moon 
Grew  pale,  and  faint,  and  far.     She  died, 
And  now  nor  star  nor  any  sign 
Fell  out  of  heaven.     Oversoon 
Some  black  men  fell.     Then  at  their  side 

Some  one  sat  down  to  watch,  to  rest 

To  rest,  to  watch,  or  what  you  will, 
The  man  sits  resting,  watching  still. 


XX. 


The  day  glared  through  the  eastern  rim 
Of  rocky  peaks,  as  prison  bars 
With  light  as  dim  as  distant  stars. 
The  sultry  sunbeams  filter'd  down 
Through  misty  phantoms  weird  and  dim, 
Through    shifting    shapes    bat-wing'd    and 

brown, 
is 


194  THE   SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT. 

Like  some  vast  ruin  wrapp'd  in  flame 
The  sun  fell  down  before  them  now. 
Behind  them  wheel'd  white  peaks  of  snow, 
As  they  proceeded.     Grey  and  grim 
And  awful  objects  went  and  came 
Before  them  then.     They  pierced  at  last 
The  desert's  middle  depths,  and  lo! 
There  loom'd  from  out  the  desert  vast 
A  lonely  ship,  well-built  and  trim, 
And  perfect  all  in  hull  and  mast. 

No  storm  had  stain'd  it  any  whit, 
No  seasons  set  their  teeth  in  it. 
Her  masts  were  white  as  ghosts,  and  tall; 
Her  decks  were  as  of  yesterday. 
The  rains,  the  elements,  and  all 
The  moving  things  that  bring  decay 
By  fair  green  lands  or  fairer  seas, 
Had  touch'd  not  here  for  centuries. 
Lo!  date  had  lost  all  reckoning, 
And  Time  had  long  forgotten  all 
In  this  lost  land,  and  no  new  thing 
Or  old  could  anywise  befall, 
For  Time  went  by  the  other  way. 

What  dreams  of  gold  or  conquest  drew 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE  DESERT.  IQ5 

The  oak-built  sea-king  to  these  seas, 
Ere  Earth,  old  Earth,  unsatisfied, 
Rose  up  and  shook  man  in  disgust 
From  off  her  wearied  breast,  and  threw 
His  high-built  cities  down,  and  dried 
These  measured  ship-sown  seas  to  dust? 
Who  trod  these  decks?     What  captain  knew 
The  straits  that  led  to  lands  like  these? 

Blew  south-sea  breeze  or  north-sea  breeze? 
What  spiced-winds  whistled  through  this  sail  ? 
What  banners  stream'd  above  these  seas? 
And  what  strange  seaman  answer'd  back 
To  other  sea-king's  beck  and  hail, 
That  blew  across  his  foamy  track? 

Sought  Jason  here  the  golden  fleece? 
Came  Trojan  ship  or  ships  of  Greece? 
Came  decks  dark-mann'd  from  sultry  Ind, 
Woo'd  here  by  spacious  wooing  wind? 
So  like  a  grand,  sweet  woman,  when 
A  great  love  moves  her  soul  to  men? 

Came  here  strong  ships  of  Solomon 
In  quest  of  Ophir  by  Cathay?  .  .  . 


IQ6  THE  SHIP   IN   TIIK  OESFRT. 

Sit  down  and  dream  of  seas  withdrawn, 
And  every  sea-breath  drawn  away. 
Sit  down,  sit  down!    What  is  the  good 
That  we  go  on  still  fashioning 
Great  iron  ships  or  walls  of  wood, 
High  masts  of  oak,  or  anything? 

Lo!  all  things  moving  must  go  by. 
The  sea  lies  dead.     Behold,  this  land 
Sits  desolate  in  dust  beside 
His  snow-white,  seamless  shroud  of  sand; 
The  very  clouds  have  wept  and  died, 
And  only  God  is  in  the  sky. 


XXI. 

The  sands  lay  heaved,  as  heaved  by  waves, 
As  fashion'd  in  a  thousand  graves: 
And  wrecks  of  storm  blown  hen.-  ami 
And  dead  men  scatter'd  everywhere; 
And  strangely  clad  they  s<-<:mM  to  \,c 
Just  as  they  sank  in  that  old  sea, 


The  mermaid  with  \\<-r  spU-mlM  li;u'r 
Had  clung  about  a  wreck's  beam  there; 


THE   SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT.  197 

And  sung  her  song  of  sweet  despair, 
The  time  she  saw  the  seas  withdrawn 
And  all  her  home  and  glory  orOjie: 

O  J      O 

Had  sung  her  melancholy  dirge 
Above  the  last  receding  surge, 
And,  looking  down  the  rippled  tide, 
Had  sung,  and  with  her  song  had  died. 

The  monsters  of  the  sea  lay  bound 
In  strange  contortions.    Coil'd  around 
A  mast  half  heaved  above  the  sand, 
The  great  sea-serpent's  folds  were  found, 
As  solid  as  ship's  iron  band. 
And  basking  in  the  burning  sun 
There  rose  the  great  whale's  skeleton. 

A  thousand  sea  things  stretch'd  across 
Their  wean*  and  bewilder'd  way: 
Groat  unnamed  monsters  wrinkled  lay 
With  sunken  eyes  and  shrunken  form. 
The  strong  sea-horse  that  rode  the  storm 
With  mane  as  light  and  white  as  floss, 
Jed  in  his  mane  of  moss, 

And  anchor,  hull,  and  cast-away, 
And  all  things  that  the  miser  deep 


ig8  THE   SHIP    IN    THE  DESERT. 

Doth  in  his  darkling  locker  keep, 
To  right  and  left  around  them  lay. 
Yea,  golden  coin  and  golden  cup, 
And  golden  cruse,  and  golden  plate, 
And  all  that  great  seas  swallow  up, 
Right  in  their  dreadful  pathway  lay. 
The  hoary  sea  made  white  with  time, 
And  wrinkled  cross  with  many  a  crime, 
With  all  his  treasured  thefts  was  there, 
His  sins,  his  very  soul  laid  bare, 
As  if  it  were  the  Judgment  Day. 


xxn. 

And  now  the  tawny  night  fell  soon, 
And  there  was  neither  star  nor  moon; 
And  yet  it  seem'd  it  was  not  night. 
There  fell  a  phosphorescent  light, 
There  rose  from  white  sands  and  dead  men 
A  soft  light,  white  and  strange  as  when 
The  Spirit  of  Jehovah  moved 
Upon  the  water's  conscious  face, 
And  made  it  His  abiding-place. 

Remote,  around  the  lonesome  ship, 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  199 

Old  Morgan  moved,  but  knew  it  not. 

For  neither  star  nor  moon  fell  down  .... 

I  trow  that  was  a  lonesome' spot 

He  found,  where  boat  and  ship  did  dip 

In  sands  like  some  half-sunken  town. 


At  last  before  the  leader  lay 
A  form  that  in  the  night  did  seem 
A  slain  Goliath.     As  in  a  dream, 
He  drew  aside  in  his  slow  pace, 
And  look'd.    He  saw  a  sable  face! 
A  friend  that  fell  that  very  day, 
Thrown  straight  across  his  wearied  way! 


He  falter'd  now.     His  iron  heart, 
That  never  yet  refused  its  part, 
Began  to  fail  him;  and  his  strength 
Shook  at  his  knees,  as  shakes  the  wind 
A  shatter'd  ship.     His  scatter'd  mind 
Ranged  up  and  down  the  land.     At  length 
He  turn'd,  as  ships  turn,  tempest  toss'd, 
For  now  he  knew  that  he  was  lost! 
He  sought  in  vain  the  moon,  the  stars, 
In  vain  the  battle-star  of  Mars. 


2OO  THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

Again  he  moved.     And  now  again 
He  paused,  he  peer'd  along  the  plain, 
Another  form  before  him  lay. 
He  stood,  and  statue-white  he  stood, 
He  trembled  like  a  stormy  wood, — 
It  was  a  foeman  brawn  and  grey. 

He  lifted  up  his  head  again, 
Again  he  search'd  the  great  profound 
For  moon,  for  star,  but  sought  in  vain. 
He  kept  his  circle  round  and  round 
The  great  ship  lifting  from  the  sand, 
And  pointing  heavenward  like  a  hand. 

And  still  he  crept  along  the  plain, 
Yet  where  his  foeman  dead  again 
Lay  in  his  way  he  moved  around, 
And  soft  as  if  on  sacred  ground, 
And  did  not  touch  him  anywhere. 
It  might  have  been  he  had  a  dread, 
In  his  half-crazed  and  fever'd  brain, 
His  mortal  foe  might  wake  again 
If  he  should  dare  to  touch  him  there. 

He  circled  round  the  lonesome  ship 
Like  some  wild  beast  within  a  wall, 


THE   SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT.  201 

That  keeps  his  paces  round  and  round. 
The  very  stillness  had  a  sound; 
He  saw  strange  somethings  rise  and  dip; 
He  felt  the  weirdness  like  a  pall 
Come  down  and  cover  him.    It  seem'd 
To  take  a  form,  take  many  forms, 
To  talk  to  him,  to  reach  out  arms; 
Yet  on  he  kept,  and  silent  kept, 
And  as  he  led  he  lean'd  and  slept, 
And  as  he  slept  he  talk'd  and  dream'd. 

Then  shadows  follow'd,  stopp'd,  and  stood 
Bewilder'd,  wander'd  back  again, 
Came  on  and  then  fell  to  the  sand, 
And  sinking  died.     Then  other  men 
Did  wag  their  woolly  heads  and  laugh, 
Then  bend  their  necks  and  seem  to  quaff 
Of  cooling  waves  that  careless  flow 
Where  woods  and  long,  strong  grasses  grow. 

Yet  on  wound  Morgan,  leaning  low, 
With  her  upon  his  breast,  and  slow 
As  hand  upon  a  dial  plate. 
He  did  not  turn  his  course  or  quail, 
He  did  not  falter,  did  not  fail, 
Turn  right  or  left  or  hesitate. 


202  THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 

Some  far-off  sounds  had  lost  their  way, 
And  seem'd  to  call  to  him  and  pray 
For  help,  as  if  they  were  affright. 
It  was  not  day,  it  seem'd  not  night, 
But  that  dim  land  that  lies  between 
The  mournful,  faithful  face  of  night, 
And  loud  and  gold-bedazzled  day; 
A  night  that  was  not  felt  but  seen. 

There  seem'd  not  then  the  ghost  of  sound, 
He  stepp'd  as  soft  as  step  the  dead; 
Yet  on  he  led  in  solemn  tread, 
Bewilder'd,  blinded,  round  and  round, 
About  the  great  black  ship  that  rose 
Tall-masted  as  that  ship  that  blows 
Her  ghost  below  lost  Panama, — 
The  tallest  mast  man  ever  saw. 

Two  leaning  shadows  follow'd  him: 
Their  eyes  were  red,  their  teeth  shone  white, 
Their  limbs  did  lift  as  shadows  swim. 
Then  one  went  left  and  one  went  right, 
And  in  the  night  pass'd  out  of  night; 
Pass'd  through  the  portals  black,  unknown, 
And  Morgan  totter'd  on  alone. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT.  2O3 

And  why  he  still  survived  the  rest, 
Why  still  he  had  the  strength  to  stir, 
Why  still  he  stood  like  gnarled  oak 
That  buffets  storm  and  tempest  stroke, 
One  cannot  say,  save  but  for  her, 
That  helpless  being  on  his  breast. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  stir; 
In  rippled  currents  over  her, 
Her  black,  abundant  hair  pour'd  down 
Like  mantle  or  some  sable  gown. 
That  sad,  sweet  dreamer;  she  who  knew 
Not  anything  of  earth  at  all, 
Nor  cared  to  know  its  bane  or  bliss; 
That  dove  that  did  not  touch  the  land, 
That  knew,  yet  did  not  understand. 
And  this  may  be  because  she  drew 
Her  all  of  life  right  from  the  hand 
Of  God,  and  did  not  choose  to  learn 
The  things  that  make  up  earth's  concern. 

Ah!  there  be  souls  none  understand; 
Like  clouds,  they  cannot  touch  the  land. 
Unanchor'd  ships,  they  blow  and  blow, 
Sail  to  and  fro,  and  then  go  down 


2O4  THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

In  unknown  seas  that  none  shall  know, 
Without  one  ripple  of  renown. 

Call  these  not  fools;  the  test  of  worth 
Is  not  the  hold  you  have  of  earth. 
Ay,  there  be  gentlest  souls  sea-blown 
That  know  not  any  harbor  known. 
Now  it  may  be  the  reason  is, 
They  touch  on  fairer  shores  than  this. 

At  last  he  touch'd  a  fallen  group, 
Dead  fellows  tumbled  in  the  sands, 
Dead  foemen,  gather'd  to  the  dead. 
And  eager  now  the  man  did  stoop, 
Lay  down  his  load  and  reach  his  hands, 
And  stretch  his  form  and  look  steadfast 
And  frightful,  and  as  one  aghast. 
He  lean'd,  and  then  he  raised  his  head, 
And  look'd  for  Vasques,  but  in  vain 
He  peer'd  along  the  deadly  plain. 

Lo!  from  the  night  another  face, 
The  last  that  follow'd  through  the  deep, 
Comes  on,  falls  dead  within  a  pace. 
Yet  Vasques  still  survives!     But  where? 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  205 

His  last  bold  follower  lies  there, 

Thrown  straight  across  old  Morgan's  track, 

As  if  to  check  him,  bid  him  back. 

He  stands,  he  does  not  dare  to  stir, 

He  watches  by  his  bride  asleep, 

He  fears  for  her:  but  only  her. 

The  man  who  ever  mock'd  at  death, 

He  hardly  dares  to  draw  his  breath. 


XXIII. 

Beyond,  and  still  as  black  despair, 
A  man  rose  up,  stood  dark  and  tall, 
Stretch'd  out  his  neck,  reach'd  forth,  let  fall 
Dark  oaths,  and  Death  stood  waiting  there. 

He  drew  his  blade,  came  straight  as  death 
For  Morgan's  last  man,  most  endear'd. 
I  think  no  man  there  drew  a  breath, 
I  know  that  no  man  quail'd  or  fear'd. 

The  tawny  dead  man  stretch'd  between, 
And  Vasques  set  his  foot  thereon. 
The  stars  were  seal'd,  the  moon  was  gone, 


2O6  THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

The  very  darkness  cast  a  shade. 
The  scene  was  rather  heard  than  seen, 
The  rattle  of  a  single  blade .... 

A  right  foot  rested  on  the  dead, 

A  black  hand  reach'd  and  clutch'd  a  beard, 

Then  neither  pray'd,  nor  dream'd  of  hope. 

A  fierce  face  reach'd,  a  black  face  peer'd. . . . 

No  bat  went  whirling  overhead, 

No  star  fell  out  of  Ethiope. 

The  dead  man  lay  between  them  there, 
The  two  men  glared  as  tigers  glare, — 
The  black  man  held  him  by  the  beard. 
He  wound  his  hand,  he  held  him  fast, 
And  tighter  held,  as  if  he  fear'd 
The  man  might  'scape  him  at  the  last. 
Whiles  Morgan  did  not  speak  or  stir, 
But  stood  in  silent  watch  by  her. 

Not  long A  light  blade  lifted,  thrust, 

A  blade  that  leapt  and  swept  about, 

So  wizard-like,  like  wand  in  spell, 

So  like  a  serpent's  tongue  thrust  out. . . . 

Thrust  twice,  thrust  thrice,  thrust  as  he  fell, 

Thrust  through  until  it  touched  the  dust. 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  207 

Yet  ever  as  he  thrust  and  smote, 
A  black  hand  like  an  iron  band 
Did  tighten  round  a  gasping  throat. 
He  fell,  but  did  not  loose  his  hand; 
The  two  fell  dead  upon  the  sand. 

Lo!  up  and  from  the  fallen  forms 
Two  ghosts  came  forth  like  clouds  of  storms; 
Two  grey  ghosts  stood,  then  looking  back, 
With  hands  all  empty,  and  hands  clutch'd, 
Strode  on  in  silence.     Then  they  touch'd, 
Along  the  lonesome,  chartless  track, 
Where  dim  Plutonian  darkness  fell, 
Then  touch'd  the  outer  rim  of  hell; 
And  looking  back  their  great  despair 
Sat  sadly  down,  as  resting  there. 


XXIV. 

As  if  there  was  a  strength  in  death 
The  battle  seem'd  to  nerve  the  man 
To  superhuman  strength.     He  rose, 
Held  up  his  head,  began  to  scan 
The  heavens  and  to  take  his  breath 


2O8  THE   SHIP   IN   THE   DESERT. 

Right  strong  and  lustily.     He  now 
Resumed  his  load,  and  with  his  eye 
Fix'd  on  a  star  that  filter'd  through 
The  farther  west,  push'd  bare  his  brow, 
And  kept  his  course  with  head  held  high, 
As  if  he  strode  his  deck  and  drew 
His  keel  below  some  lifted  light 
That  watch'd  the  rocky  reef  at  night. 

How  lone  he  was,  how  patient  she 
Upon  that  lonesome  sandy  sea! 
It  were  a  sad,  unpleasant  sight 
To  follow  them  through  all  the  night, 
Until  the  time  they  lifted  hand, 
And  touch'd  at  last  a  water'd  land. 

There  turkeys  walk'd  the  tangled  grass, 
And  scarcely  turn'd  to  let  them  pass. 
There  was  no  sign  of  man,  nor  sign 
Of  savage  beast.     'Twas  so  divine, 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  bended  skies 
Were  rounded  for  this  Paradise. 

The  large-eyed  antelope  came  down 
From  off  their  windy  hills,  and  blew 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  20Q 

Their  whistles  as  they  wander'd  through 
The  open  groves  of  water'd  wood; 
Then  came  as  light  as  if  on  wing, 
And  reached  their  noses  wet  and  brown, 
And  stamp'd  their  little  feet  and  stood 
Close  up  before  them  wondering. 


What  if  this  were  the  Eden  true, 
They  found  in  far  heart  of  the  new 
And  unnamed  westmost  world  I  sing, 
Where  date  and  history  had  birth, 
And  man  first  'gan  his  wandering 
To  go  the  girdles  of  the  earth! 

It  lies  a  little  isle  mid  land, 
An  island  in  a  sea  of  sand; 
With  reedy  waters  and  the  balm 
Of  an  eternal  summer  air; 
Some  blowy  pines  toss  tall  and  fair; 
And  there  are  grasses  long  and  strong, 
And  tropic  fruits  that  never  fail: 
The  Manzinetta  pulp,  the  palm, 
The  prickly  pear,  with  all  the  song 

Of  summer  birds.     And  there  the  quail 
u 


2IO  THE   SHIP   IX   THE    DESERT. 

Makes  nest,  and  you  may  hear  her  call 
All  day  from  out  the  chaparral. 

A  land  where  white  man  never  trod, 
And  Morgan  seems  some  demi-god. 
That  haunts  the  red  man's  spirit-land. 
A  land  where  never  red  man's  hand 
Is  lifted  up  in  strife  at  all, 
But  holds  it  sacred  unto  those 
Who  bravely  fell  before  their  foes, 
And  rarely  dares  its  desert  wall. 

Here  breaks  nor  sound  of  strife  nor  sign; 
Rare  times  a  red  man  comes  this  way, 
Alone,  and  battle-scared  and  grey, 
And  then  he  bends  devout  before 
The  maid  who  keeps  the  cabin-door, 
And  deems  her  something  all  divine. 

Within  the  island's  heart  'tis  said, 
Tall  trees  are  bending  down  with  bread, 
And  that  a  fountain  pure  as  Truth, 
And  deep  and  mossy-bound  and  fair, 
Is  bubbling  from  the  forest  there, — 
Perchance  the  fabled  fount  of  youth ! 


THE    SHIP    IX   THE    DESERT.  211 

An  isle  where  skies  are  ever  fair, 
Where  men  keep  never  date  nor  day, 
Where  Time  has  thrown  his  glass  away. 

This  isle  is  all  their  own.     No  more 
The  flight  by  day,  the  watch  by  night. 
Dark  Ina  twines  about  the  door 
The  scarlet  blooms,  the  blossoms  white 
And  winds  red  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  never  knows  the  name  of  care. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  they  blow 
In  rainbow  clouds,  in  clouds  of  snow; 
The  birds  take  berries  from  her  hand; 
They  come  and  go  at  her  command. 
She  has  a  thousand  pretty  birds, 
That  sing  her  summer  songs  all  day; 
Small,  black-hoof'd  antelope  in  herds, 
And  squirrels  bushy-tail'd  and  grey, 
With  round  and  sparkling  eyes  of  pink, 
And  cunning-faced  as  you  can  think. 

She  has  a  thousand  busy  birds; 
And  is  she  happy  in  her  isle. 


212  THE   SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 

With  all  her  feather'd  friends  and  herds? 
For  when  has  Morgan  seen  her  smile? 

She  has  a  thousand  cnning  birds, 
They  would  build  nestings  in  her  hair, 
She  has  brown  antelope  in  herds; 
She  never  knows  the  name  of  care; 
Why,  then,  is  she  not  happy  there? 
All  patiently  she  bears  her  part; 
She  has  a  thousand  birdlings  there, 
These  birds  they  would  build  in  her  hair; 
But  not  one  bird  builds  in  her  heart. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  yet  she 
Would  give  ten  thousand  cheerfully, 
All  bright  of  plume  and  pure  of  tongue, 
And  sweet  as  ever  trilled  or  sung, 
For  one  small  flutter'd  bird  to  come 
And  build  within  her  heart,  though  dumb. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  yet  one 
Is  lost,  and,  lo!  she  is  undone. 
She  sighs  sometimes.     She  looks  away, 
And  yet  she  does  not  weep  or  say. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT.  213 

NOTE.— This  story,  if  story  it  is,  I  learned  from  the  lips  of  Moun- 
tain Joe,  of  Utah.  The  desert  is  certainly  the  bed  of  a  dried-up 
sea,  of  which  Great  Salt  Lake  is  a  northern  remnant.  Indeed,  as 
you  look  across  Salt  Lake  to  the  -west,  yon  can  see  on  the  mountain 
side,  fifty  feet  above  the  present  water  level,  a  well-defined  sea 
shore. 

The  Ship  in  the  Desert  is  counted  a  veritable  fact  by  many  good 
men.  I  have  been  on  the  borders  of  this  desert,  bat  farther  than 
some  old  bits  of  battered  copper,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  found  no 
evidence  of  its  existence.  But  the  late  Colonel  Evans,  of  Califor- 
nia, a  man  much  respected,  and  author  of  a  work  on  this  subject, 
told  me  that  by  the  aid  of  a  powerful  fieldglass,  and  under  a  pecul- 
iarly favorable  light,  he  had  seen  the  ship.  My  honest  opinion  is 
that  it  was  but  a  mirage. 


FROM  SEA  TO  SEA. 

~r     O!  here  tit  we  by  the  sun-down  seas 
-*• — •/      And  the  white  Sierras.    The  sweet  sea-breeze 
Is  about  us  here ;  and  a  sky  so  fair 
Is  bending  above,  so  cloudless,  blue. 
That  you  gaze  and  you  gaze  and  you  dream,  and  you 
See  God  and  the  portals  of  heaven  there. 

SHAKE  hands!   kiss  hands  in  haste  to  the 
sea, 

Where  the  sun  comes  in,  and  mount  with  me 
The  matchless  steed  of  the  strong  New  World, 
As  he  champs  and  chafes  with  a  strength 

untold, — 
And  away  to  the  West,  where  the  waves  are 

curl'd, 
As  they  kiss  white  palms  to  the  capes  of  gold! 


A  girth  of  brass  and  a  breast  of  steel, 
A  breath  of  fire  and  a  flaming  mane, 
An  iron  hoof  and  a  steel-clad  heel, 
A  Mexican  bit  and  a  massive  chain 

214 


-FROM    SEA   TO   SEA.  215 

Well  tried  and  wrought  in  an  iron  rein; 
And  away!  away!  with  a  shout  and  yell 
They  had  stricken  a  legion  of  old  with  fear, 
They  had   started  the  dead  from  the   graves 

whilere, 
And  startled  the  damn'd  in  hell  as  well. 

Stand  up!  stand  out!  where  the  wind  comes  in, 
And  the  wealth  of  the  seas  pours  over  you, 
As  its  health  floods  up  to  the  face  like  wine, 
And  a  breath  blows  up  from  the  Delaware 
And  the  Susquehanna.    We  feel  the  might 
Of  armies  in  us;  the  blood  leaps  through 
The  frame  with  a  fresh  and  a  keen  delight 
As  the  Alleghanies  have  kiss'd  the  hair, 
With  a  kiss  blown  far  through  the  rush  and  din, 
By  the  chestnut  burs  and  through  boughs  of 
pine. 

O  seas  in  a  land!    O  lakes  of  mine! 
By  the  love  I  bear  and  the  songs  I  bring 
Be  glad  with  me!  lift  your  waves  and  sing 
A  song  in  the  reeds  that  surround  your  isles!— 
A  song  of  joy  for  this  sun  that  smiles, 
For  this  land  I  love  and  this  age  and  sign; 


2l6  FROM    SEA   TO    SEA. 

For  the  peace  that  is  and  the  perils  pass'd; 
For  the  hope  that  is  and  the  rest  at  last! 

O  heart  of  the  world's  heart!  West!  my  West! 
Look  up!  look  out!    There  are  fields  of  kine, 
There  are  clover-fields  that  are  red  as  wine; 
And  a  world  of  kine  in  the  fields  take  rest, 
As  they  ruminate  in  the  shade  of  trees 
That  are  white  with  blossoms  or  brown  with  bees. 

There  are  emerald  seas  of  corn  and  cane; 
There  are  isles  of  oak  on  the  harvest  plain, 
Where  brown  men  bend  to  the  bending  grain; 
There  are  temples  of  God  and  towns  new-born' 
And  beautiful  homes  of  beautiful  brides; 
And  the  hearts  of  oak  and  the  hands  of  horn 
Have  fashion'd  them  all  and  a  world  besides.  .  . 

A  rush  of  rivers  and  a  brush  of  trees, 
A  breath  blown  far  from  the  Mexican  seas, 
And  over  the  great  heart-vein  of  earth! 
.  .  .  By  the  South-Sun-land  of  the  Cherokee, 
By  the  scalp-lock-lodge  of  the  tall  Pawnee, 
And  up  the  La  Platte.     What  a  weary  dearth 
Of  the  homes  of  men!     What  a  wild  delight 


FROM    SEA   TO   SEA.  217 

Of  space!     Of  room!     What  a  sense  of  seas, 
Where   the   seas    are  not!      What   a  salt-like 

breeze! 

What  dust  and  taste  of  quick  alkali! 
.  .  .  Then  hills!  green,  brown,  then  black  like 

night, 
All  fierce  and  defiant  against  the  sky! 

At  last!  at  last!     O  steed  new-born, 
Born  strong  of  the  will  of  the  strong  New  World, 
We  shoot  to  the  summit,  with  the  shafts  of  morn, 
On  the  mount  of  Thunder,  where  clouds  are 

curl'd, 

Below  in  a  splendor  of  the  sun-clad  seas. 
A  kiss  of  welcome  on  the  warm  west  breeze 
Blows  up  with  a  smell  of  the  fragrant  pine, 
And  a  faint,  sweet  fragrance  from  the  far-off  seas 
Comes  in  through  the  gates  of  the  great  South 

Pass 

And  thrills  the  soul  like  a  flow  of  wine. 
The  hare  leaps  low  in  the  storm-bent  grass, 
The  mountain  ram  from  his  cliffs  looks  back, 
The  brown  deer  hies  to  the  tamarack; 
And  afar  to  the  South  with  a  sound  of  the  main, 
Roll  buffalo  herds  to  the  limitless  plain  .... 


2l8  FROM    SEA   TO    SEA. 

On,  on,  o'er  the  summit;  and  onward  again, 
And    down    like    the  sea-dove  the  billow    en- 
shrouds, 

And  down  like  the  swallow  that  dips  to  the  sea, 
We  dart  and  we  dash  and  we  quiver  and  we 
Are  blowing  to  heaven  white  billows  of  clouds. 

Thou  "  City  of  Saints!  "  O  antique  men, 
And  men  of  the  Desert  as  the  men  of  old! 
Stand  up!  be  glad!  When  the  truths  are  told, 
When  Time  has  utter'd  his  truths  and  when 
His  hand  has  lifted  the  things  to  fame 
From  the  mass  of  things  to  be  known  no  more, 
A  monument  set  in  the  desert  sand, 
A  pyramid  rear'd  on  an  inland  shore, 
And  their  architects,  shall  have  place  and  name. 

The  Humboldt  desert  and  the  alkaline  land, 
And  the  seas  of  sage  and  of  arid  sand 
That  stretch  away  till  the  strain'd  eye  carries 
The  soul  where  the  infinite  spaces  fill, 
Are  far  in  the  rear,  and  the  fierce  Sierras 
Are  under  our  feet,  and  the  heart  beats  high 
And  the  blood  comes  quick;  but  the  lips  are 
still 


FROM    SEA   TO   SEA.  2IQ 

With  awe  and  wonder,  and  all  the  will 

Is  bow'd  with  a  grandeur  that  frets  the  sky. 

A  flash  of  lakes  through  the  fragrant  trees, 
A  song  of  birds  and  a  sound  of  bees 
Above  in  the  boughs  of  the  sugar-pine. 
The  pick-axe  stroke  in  the  placer  mine, 
The  boom  of  blasts  in  the  gold-ribbed  hills, 
The  grizzly's  growl  in  the  gorge  below 
Are  dying  away,  and  the  sound  of  rills 
From  the  far-off  shimmering  crest  of  snow, 
The  laurel  green  and  the  ivied  oak, 
A  yellow  stream  and  a  cabin's  smoke, 
The  brown  bent  hills  and  the  shepherd's  call, 
The  hills  of  vine  and  of  fruits,  and  all 
The  sweets  of  Eden  are  here,  and  we 
Look  out  and  afarvto  a  limitless  sea. 

We  have  lived  an  age  in  a  half-moon-wane! 
We  have  seen  a  world!  We  have  chased  the  sun 
From  sea  to  sea;  but  the  task  is  done. 
We  here  descend  to  the  great  white  main, — 
To  the  King  of  Seas,  with  the  temples  bare 
And  a  tropic  breath  on  the  brow  and  hair. 


22O  FROM    SEA   TO    SEA. 

We  are  hush'd  with  wonder,  we  stand  apart, 
We  stand  in  silence;  the  heaving  heart 
Fills  full  of  heaven,  and  then  the  knees 
Go  down  in  worship  on  the  golden  sands. 
With  faces  seaward,  and  with  folded  hands 
We  gaze  on  the  beautiful  Balboa  seas. 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

fr~ i  \HE  world  it  is  wide;  men  go  their  ways; 

-*-          But  love  he  it  wise,  and  of  all  the  hours. 
And  of  all  the  beautiful  sun-born  days, 

Be  tips  their  sweets  as  the  bees  sip  flowers. 


THE  sunlight  lay  in  gather'd  sheaves 
Along  the  ground,  the  golden  leaves 
Possess'd  the  land  and  lay  in  bars 
Above  the  lifted  lawn  of  green 
Beneath  the  feet,  or  fell,  as  stars 
Fall,  slantwise,  shimmering  and  still 
Upon  the  plain,  upon  the  hill, 
And  heaving  hill  and  plain  between. 

Some  steeds  in  panoply  were  seen, 
Strong,  martial  trained,  with  manes  in  air, 
And  tassell'd  reins  and  mountings  rare; 
Some  silent  people  here  and  there, 
That  gather'd  leaves  with  listless  will, 

Or  moved  adown  the  dappled  green, 
221 


222  AN    INDIAN   SUMMER. 

Or  look'd  away  with  idle  gaze 

Against  the  gold  and  purple  haze. 

You  might  have  heard  red  leaflets  fall, 

The  pheasant  on  the  farther  hill, 

A  single,  lonely,  locust  trill, 

Or  sliding  sable  cricket  call 

From  out  the  grass,  but  that  was  all. 

A  wanderer  of  many  lands 
Was  I,  a  weary  Ishmaelite, 
That  knew  the  sign  of  lifted  hands; 
Had  seen  the  Crescent-mosques,  had  seen 
The  Druid  oaks  of  Aberdeen — 
Recross'd  the  hilly  seas,  and  saw 
The  sable  pines  of  Mackinaw, 
And  lakes  that  lifted  cold  and  white. 

I  saw  the  sweet  Miami,  saw 
The  swift  Ohio  bent  and  roll'd 
Between  his  gleaming  walls  of  gold, 
The  Wabash  banks  of  gray  pawpaw, 
The  Mississippi's  ash;  at  morn 
Of  autumn,  when  the  oak  is  red, 
Saw  slanting  pyramids  of  corn, 
The  level  fields  of  spotted  swine, 


AN    INDIAN   SUMMER.  223 

The  crooked  lanes  of  lowing  kine, 
And  in  the  burning  bushes  saw 
The  face  of  God,  with  bended  head. 


But  when  I  saw  her  face,  I  said, 
"  Earth  has  no  fruits  so  fairly  red 
As  these  that  swing  above  my  head; 
No  purpled  leaf,  no  poppied  land, 
Like  this  that  lies  in  reach  of  hand.  ' 


And,  soft,  unto  myself  I  said: 
"  O  soul,  inured  to  rue  and  rime, 
To  barren  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
To  biting  rime,  to  bitter  rue, 
Earth  is  not  Nazareth;  be  good. 
O  sacred  Indian-summer  time 
Of  scarlet  fruits,  of  fragrant  wood, 
Of  purpled  clouds,  of  curling  haze — 
O  days  of  golden  dreams  and  days 
Of  banish'd,  vanish'd  tawny  men, 
Of  martial  songs  and  manly  deeds — 
Be  fair  to-day,  and  bear  me  true." 
We  mounted,  turn'd  the  sudden  steeds 
Toward  the  yellow  hills,  and  flew. 


224  AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

My  faith  !  but  she  rode  fair,  and  she 
Had  scarlet  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  on  her  hands  white  starry  stones. 
The  satellites  of  many  thrones 
Fall  down  before  her  gracious  air 
In  that  full  season.     Fair  to  see 
Are  pearly  shells,  red  virgin  gold, 
And  yellow  fruits,  and  sun-down  seas, 
And  babes  sun-brown;  but  all  of  these, 
And  all  fair  things  of  sea  besides, 
Before  the  matchless,  manifold 
Accomplishments  of  her  who  rides 
With  autumn  summer  in  her  hair, 
And  knows  her  steed  and  holds  her  fair 
And  stately  in  her  stormy  seat, 
They  lie  like  playthings  at  her  feet. 

By  heaven!  she  was  more  than  fair, 
And  more  than  good,  and  matchless  wise, 
With  all  the  lovelight  in  her  eyes, 
And  all  the  midnight  in  her  hair. 

Through  leafy  avenues  and  lanes, 
And  lo!  we  climb'd  the  yellow  hills, 
With  russet  leaves  about  the  brows 


AN    INDIAN   SUMMER.  225 

That  reach'd  from  over-reaching  trees. 
With  purpled  briers  to  the  knees 
Of  steeds  that  fretted  foamy  thews, 
We  turn'd  to  look  a  time  below 
Beneath  the  ancient  arch  of  boughs, 
That  bent  above  us  as  a  bow 
Of  promise,  bound  in  many  hues. 

I  reach'd  my  hand.     I  could  refuse 
All  fruits  but  this,  the  touch  of  her 
At  such  a  time.     But  lo!  she  lean'd 
With  lifted  face  and  soul,  and  leant 
As  leans  devoutest  worshipper, 
Beyond  the  branches  scarlet  screen'd 
And  look'd  above  me  and  beyond, 
So  fix'd  and  silent,  still  and  fond, 
She  seem'd  the  while  she  look'd  to  lose 
Her  very  soul  in  such  intent. 
She  look'd  on  oth"er  things,  but  I 
I  saw  nor  scarlet  leaf  nor  sky; 
I  look'd  on  her,  and  only  her. 


Afar  the  city  lay  in  smokes 
Of  battle,  and  the  martial  strokes 
Of  Progress  thunder'd  through  the  land 

15 


226  AN    INDIAN   SUMMER. 

And  struck  against  the  yellow  trees, 
And  roll'd  in  hollow  echoes  on 
Like  sounding  limits  of  the  seas 
That  smite  the  shelly  shores  at  dawn. 

Beyond,  below,  on  either  hand 
There  reach'd  a  lake  in  belt  of  pine, 
A  very  dream;  a  distant  dawn 
Asleep  in  all  the  autumn  shine, 
Some  like  one  of  another  land 
That  I  once  laid  a  hand  upon, 
And  loved  too  well,  and  named  as  mine. 

i 

She  sometimes  touch'd  with  dimpled  hand 

The  drifting  mane  with  dreamy  air, 
She  sometimes  push'd  aback  her  hair; 
But  still  she  lean'd  and  look'd  afar, 
As  silent  as  the  statues  stand, — 
For  what?     For  falling  leaf?     For  star, 
That  runs  before  the  bride  of  death?  .  .  . 
The  elements  were  still;  a  breath 
Stirr'd  not,  the  level  western  sun 
Pour'd  in  his  arrows  every  one; 
Spill'd  all  his  wealth  of  purpled  red 
On  velvet  poplar  leaf  below, 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER.  22"] 

On  arching  chestnut  overhead 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow. 

She  sat  the  upper  hill,  and  high. 
I  spurr'd  my  black  steed  to  her  side; 
"  The  bow  of  promise,  lo!  "  I  cried, 
And  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  hers 
With  all  the  fervid  love  that  stirs 
The  blood  of  men  beneath  the  sun, 
And  reach'd  my  hand,  as  one  undone, 
In  suppliance  to  hers  above: 
"The  bow  of  promise!  give  me  love! 
I  reach  a  hand,  I  rise  or  fall, 
Henceforth  from  this:  put  forth  a  hand 
From  your  high  place  and  let  me  stand — 
Stand  soul  and  body,  white  and  tall! 
Why,  I  would  live  for  you,  would  die 
To-morrow,  but  to  live  to-day, 
Give  me  but  love,  and  let  me  live 
To  die  before  you.     I  can  pray 
To  only  you,  because  I  know, 
If  you  but  give  what  I  bestow, 
That  God  has  nothing  left  to  give." 

Christ!  still  her  stately  head  was  raised, 
And  still  she  silent  sat  and  gazed 


228  AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

Beyond  the  trees,  beyond  the  town, 
To  where  the  dimpled  waters  slept, 
Nor  splendid  eyes  once  bended  down 
To  eyes  that  lifted  up  and  wept. 

She  spake  not,  nor  subdued  her  head 
To  note  a  hand  or  heed  a  word; 
And  then  I  question'd  if  she  heard 
My  life-tale  on  that  leafy  hill, 
Or  any  fervid  word  I  said, 
And  spoke  with  bold,  vehement  will. 

She  moves,  and  from  her  bridled  hand 
She  slowly  drew  the  dainty  glove, 
Then  gazed  again  upon  the  land. 
The  dimpled  hand,  a  snowy  dove 
Alit,  and  moved  along  the  mane 
Of  glossy  skeins;  then,  overbold, 
It  fell  across  the  mane,  and  lay 
Before  my  eyes  a  sweet  bouquet 
Of  cluster'd  kisses,  white  as  snow. 
I  should  have  seized  it  reaching  so, 
But  something  bade  me  back, — a  ban; 
Around  the  third  fair  finger  ran 
A  shining,  hateful  hoop  of  gold. 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER.  22Q 

Ay,  then  I  turn'd,  I  look'd  away, 
I  sudden  felt  forlorn  and  chill; 
I  whistled,  like,  for  want  to  say, 
And  then  I  said,  with  bended  head, 
"Another's  ship  from  other  shores, 
With  richer  freight,  with  fairer  stores, 
Shall  come  to  her  some  day  instead;" 
Then  turn'd  about, —  and  all  was  still. 

Yea,  you  had  chafed  at  this,  and  cried, 
And  laugh'd  with  bloodless  lips,  and  said 
Some  bitter  things  to  sate  your  pride, 
And  toss'd  aloft  a  lordly  head, 
And  acted  well  some  wilful  lie, 
And,  most  like,  cursed  yourself — but  I  .  . 
Well,  you  be  crucified,  and  you 
Be  broken  up  with  lances  through 
The  soul,  then  you  may  turn  to  find 
Some  ladder-rounds  in  keenest  rods, 
Some  solace  in  the  bitter  rind, 
Some  favor  with  the  gods  irate — 
The  everlasting  anger'd  gods — 
And  ask  not  overmuch  of  fate. 

I  was  not  born,  was  never  bless'd, 
With  cunning  ways,  nor  wit,  nor  skill 


230  AN    INDIAN   SUMMER. 

In.  woman's  ways,  nor  words  of  love, 
Nor  fashion'd  suppliance  of  will. 
A  very  clown,  I  think,  had  guess'd 
How  out  of  place  and  plain  I  seem'd; 
I,  I,  the  idol-worshipper, 
Who  saw  nor  maple-leaves  nor  sky 
But  took  some  touch  and  hue  of  her. 

I  am  a  pagan,  heathen,  lo! 
A  savage  man,  of  savage  lands; 
Too  quick  to  love,  too  slow  to  know 
The  sign  that  tame  love  understands. 

***** 

Some  heedless  hoofs  went  sounding  down 
The  broken  way.     The  woods  were  brown, 
And  homely  now;  some  idle  talk 
Of  folk  and  town;  a  broken  walk; 
But  sounding  feet  made  song  no  more 
For  me  along  that  leafy  shore. 

The  sun  caught  up  his  gather'd  sheaves; 
A  squirrel  caught  a  nut,  and  ran; 
A  rabbit  rustled  in  the  leaves, 
A  whirling  bat,  black-wing'd  and  tan, 
Blew  swift  between  us;  sullen  night 


AN    INDIAN   SUMMER.  23! 

Fell  down  upon  us;  mottled  kine, 
With  lifted  heads,  went  lowing  down 
The  rocky  ridge  toward  the  town, 
And  all  the  woods  grew  dark  as  wine. 

***** 

Yea,  bless'd  Ohio's  banks  are  fair; 

A  sunny  clime  and  good  to  touch, 

For  tamer  men  of  gentler  mien, 

But  as  for  me,  another  scene. 

A  land  below  the  Alps  I  know, 

Set  well  with  grapes  and  girt  with  much 

Of  woodland  beauty;  I  shall  share 

My  rides  by  night  below  the  light 

Of  Mauna  Loa,  ride  below 

The  steep  and  starry  Hebron  height; 

Shall  lift  my  hands  in  many  lands, 

See  South  Sea  palm,  see  Northland  fir, 

See    white-winged    swans,   see    red-bill'd 

doves; 

See  many  lands  and  many  loves, 
But  never  more  the  face  of  her. 

And  what  her  name  or  now  the  place 
Of  her  who  makes  my  Mecca's  prayer, 
Concerns  you  not;  not  any  trace 


-:- 


_"  -  :  -.::.-.:-:;  :  -  :";. 

Rrmainv.    The  memory  is  mine. 

Ai»d  none  shall  pass  the  portals  there. 

The  pcesevt*  take  it,  hold  it  thine, 
But  that  one  hoar  out  from  all 
The  years  that  are,  or  yet  shall  fall, 
I  pluck  it  oat,  I  name  it  mine; 
That  hoar  bo  and  in  sonny  sheaves, 
With  tasseird  shocks  of  golden  shine, 
That  hoar,  wound  in  scarlet  leaves. 
Is  mine.  I  stietch  a  hand  and  swear 
An  oath  that  breaks  into  a  prayer; 
By  heaven,  it  is  wholly  mine! 

I  see  the  gold  and  purple  gleam 
Of  »•*•!«••»  leaves,  a  reach  of  seas, 
A  sflcBt  rider  Eke  a  dream 
Mores  by.  a  mist  of  mysteries, 
And  these  are  mine,  and  only  these, 
Yet  they  be  more  in  my  esteem, 
Than  silver' d  sails  on  coraU'd 


Let  red-leafd  boughs  sweet  fruits  bestow, 
Let  fame  of  foreign  lands  be  mine. 


AS    INDIAN   SUMMER.  233 

Let  blame  of  faithless  men  befall ; 
It  matters  nothing;  over  all, 
One  hour  arches  like  a  bow 
Of  promise  blent  in  many  hues, 
That  tide  nor  time  shall  bid  decline; 
Or  storms  of  all  the  years  refuse. 


BURNS. 

BLD  Druid  oaks  of  Ayr. 
Precepts!    Poems!    Pages 
Lessons!    Leaves,  and  Volumes! 
Arches!    Pillars!    Columns 
In  corridors  of  ages! 
Grand  patriarchal  sages 
Lifting  palms  in  prayer! 


The  Druid  beards  are  drifting 
And  shifting  to  and  fro. 
In  gentle  breezes  lifting. 
That  bat-like  come  and  go. 
The  while  the  moon  is  sifting 
A  sheen  of  shining  snow 
On  all  these  blossoms  lifting 
Their  blue  eyes  from  below. 


No,  ''tis  not  phantoms  walking 
That  you  hear  rustling  there. 
But  bearded  Druids  talking. 
And  turning  leaves  in  prayer. 
No,  not  a  night-bird  singing 
Nor  breeze  the  broad  bough  swinging. 
But  that  bough  holds  a  censer, 
And  swings  it  to  and  fro. 
''Tis  Sunday  eve,  remember. 
That's  why  they  chant  so  low. 
234 


BURNS.  235 


I   LINGER  in  the  autumn  noon, 
I  listen  to  the  partridge  call, 
I  watch  the  yellow  leaflets  fall 
And  drift  adown  the  dimpled  Doon. 
I  lean  me  o'er  the  ivy-grown 
Auld  brig,  where  Vandal  tourists'  tools 
Have  ribb'd  out  names  that  would  be  known, 
Are  known — known  as  a  herd  of  fools. 

Down  Ailsa  Craig  the  sun  declines, 

With  lances  level'd  here  and  there — 
The  tinted  thorns!  the  trailing  vines! 

0  braes  of  Doon!  so  fond,  so  fair! 
So  passing  fair,  so  more  than  fond! 
The  Poet's  place  of  birth  beyond, 

Beyond  the  mellow  bells  of  Ayr! 

1  hear  the  milk-maid's  twilight  song 
Come  bravely  through  the  storm-bent  oaks; 
Beyond,  the  white  surf's  sullen  strokes 

Beat  in  a  chorus  deep  and  strong; 
I  hear  the  sounding  forge  afar, 
And  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car, 


236  BURNS. 

The  steady  tinkle  of  the  bell 
Of  lazy,  laden,  home-bound  cows 
That  stop  to  bellow  and  to  browse; 

I  breathe  the  soft  sea-wind  as  well. 

O  Burns!  where  bide?  where  bide  ye  now? 
Where  are  you  in  this  night's  full  noon, 
Great  master  of  the  pen  and  plough? 
Might  you  not  on  yon  slanting  beam 
Of  moonlight,  kneeling  to  the  Boon, 
Descend  once  to  this  hallow'd  stream? 
Sure  yon  stars  yield  enough  of  light 
For  heaven  to  spare  your  face  one  night. 

0  Burns!  another  name  for  song, 
Another  name  for  passion — pride; 
For  love  and  poesy  allied; 

For  strangely  blended  right  and  wrong. 

1  picture  you  as  one  who  kneel'd 
A  stranger  at  his  own  hearthstone; 
One  knowing  all,  yet  all  unknown, 
One  seeing  all,  yet  all  conceal'd; 
The  fitful  years  you  linger'd  here, 
A  lease  of  peril  and  of  pain; 


BURNS.  237 

And  I  am  thankful  yet  again 

The  gods  did  love  you,  ploughman!  peer! 

In  all  your  own  and  other  land, 
I  hear  your  touching  songs  of  cheer; 
The  peasant  and  the  lordly  peer 
Above  your  honor'd  dust  strike  hands. 

A  touch  of  tenderness  is  shown 
In  this  unselfish  love  of  Ayr, 
And  it  is  well,  you  earn'd  it  fair; 
For  all  unhelmeted,  alone, 
You  proved  a  ploughman's  honest  claim 
To  battle  in  the  lists  of  fame; 
You  earn'd  it  as  a  warrior  earns 
His  laurels  fighting  for  his  land, 
And  died — it  was  your  right  to  go. 
O  eloquence  of  silent  woe! 
The  Master  leaning  reach'd  a  hand, 
And  whisper'd,  "It  is  finish'd,  Burns!" 

O  sad,  sweet  singer  of  a  Spring! 
Yours  was  a  chill,  uncheerful  May, 
And  you  knew  no  full  days  of  June; 
You  ran  too  swiftly  up  the  way, 


: :  - 

And  wearied  soon,  so  over-soon! 
Yo«  sang  u  weariness  and  woe; 
You  falter'd,  and  God  heard  you  sing, 
Thett  toackM  your  hand  and  led  yoa  so, 
Y«m  fowl  life's  kill-top  km,  so  low, 
Yoa  cross'd  its  summit  long  ere  noon. 
Thus  sooner  than  one  would  suppose 
weary  feet  do  find  repose. 


BYRON. 


7~.V  men  whom  men  condemn  a* 


In  me*  whom  men  pronounce  divine 
I  find  to  much  of  fin  and  blot, 
I  hesitate  to  draw  a  line 
Between  the  two,  where  God  hat  not. 


OCOLD  and  cruel  Nottingham! 
In  disappointment  and  in  tears, 
Sad,  lost,  and  lonely,  here  I  am 
To  question,  "  Is  this  Nottingham, 
Of  which  I  dream'd  for  years  and  years?' 
I  seek  in  vain  for  name  or  sign 
Of  him  who  made  this  mould  a  shrine, 
A  Mecca  to  the  fair  and  fond 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  still  beyond. 


Where  white  clouds  crush  their  drooping 

wings 
Against  the  snow-crown'd  battlements, 


24O  BYRON. 

And  peaks  that  flash  like  silver  tents; 

Where  Sacramento's  fountain  springs, 

And  proud  Columbia  frets  his  shore 

Of  sombre,  boundless  wood  and  wold, 

And  lifts  his  yellow  sands  of  gold 

In  plaintive  murmurs  evermore; 

Where  snowy  dimpled  Tahoe  smiles, 

And  where  white  breakers  from  the  sea, 

In  solid  phalanx  knee  to  knee, 

Surround  the  calm  Pacific  Isles, 

Then  run  and  reach  unto  the  land 

And  spread  their  thin  palms  on  the  sand,- 

Is  he  supreme — there  understood: 

The  free  can  understand  the  free; 

The  brave  and  good  the  brave  and  good. 

Yea,  he  did  sin;  who  hath  reveal'd 
That  he  was  more  than  man,  or  less? 
Yet  sinn'd  no  more,  but  less  conceal'd 
Than  they  who  cloak'd  their  follies  o'er, 
And  then  cast  stones  in  his  distress. 
He  scorh'd  to  make  the  good  seem  more, 
Or  make  the  bitter  sin  seem  less. 
And  so  his  very  manliness 
The  seeds  of  persecution  bore. 


BYRON.  241 

When  all  his  fervid,  wayward  love 
Brought  back  no  olive-branch  or  dove, 
Or  love  or  trust  from  any  one, 
Proud,  all  unpitied  and  alone 
He  lived  to  make  himself  unknown, 
Disdaining  love  and  yielding  none. 
Like  some  high-lifted  sea-girt  stone 
That  could  not  stoop,  but  all  the  days, 
With  proud  brow  turning  to  the  breeze, 
Felt  seas  blown  from  the  south,  and  seas 
Blown  from  the  north,  and  many  ways, 
He  stood — a  solitary  light 
In  stormy  seas  and  settled  night — 
Then  fell,  but  stirr'd  the  seas  as  far 
As  winds  and  waves  and  waters  are. 

The  meek-eyed  stars  are  cold  and  white 
And  steady,  fix'd  for  all  the  years; 
The  comet  burns  the  wings  of  night, 
And  dazzles  elements  and  spheres, 
Then  dies  in  beauty  and  a  blaze 
Of  light,  blown  far  through  other  days. 


The  poet's  passion,  sense  of  pride, 
His  lawless  love,  the  wooing  throng 

16 


242  BYRON. 

Of  sweet  temptations  that  betide 
The  wild  and  wayward  child  of  song, 
The  world  knows  not:  I  lift  a  hand 
To  ye  who  know,  who  understand. 

***** 

The  ancient  Abbey's  breast  is  broad, 
And  stout  her  massive  walls  of  stone; 
But  let  him  lie,  repose  alone 
Ungather'd  with  the  great  of  God, 
In  dust,  by  his  fierce  fellow-man. 
Some  one,  some  day,  loud-voiced  will  speak 
And  say  the  broad  breast  was  not  broad, 
The  walls  of  stone  were  all  too  weak 
To  hold  the  proud  dust,  in  their  plan; 
The  hollow  of  God's  great  right  hand 
Receives  it;  let  it  rest  with  God. 

In  sad  but  beautiful  decay 
Grey  Hucknall  kneels  into  the  dust, 
And,  cherishing  her  sacred  trust, 
Does  blend  her  clay  with  lordly  clay. 

No  sign  or  cryptic  stone  or  cross 
Unto  the  passing  world  has  said, 
"He  died,  and  we  deplore  his  loss." 


BYRON.  243 

No  sound  of  sandall'd  pilgrims'  tread 
Disturbs  the  pilgrim's  peaceful  rest, 
Or  frets  the  proud,  impatient  breast. 
The  bat  flits  through  the  broken  pane, 
The  black  swift  swallow  gathers  moss, 
And  builds  in  peace  above  his  head, 
Then  goes,  then  comes,  and  builds  again. 

And  it  is  well;  not  otherwise 
Would  he,  the  grand  sad  singer,  will. 
The  serene  peace  of  paradise 
He  sought — 'tis  his — the  storm  is  still. 
Secure  in  his  eternal  fame, 
And  blended  p ity  and  respect, 
He  does  not  feel  the  cold  neglect, 
And  England  does  not  fear  the  shame. 


MYRRH. 


IFE  knows  no  deed  so  beautiful 

As  is  the  white  cold  coffin* d  past; 
This  I  may  love  nor  be  betrayed  : 
The  dead  are  faithful  to  the  last. 
I  am  not  spouseless — /  have  wed 
A  memory — a  life  that's  dead. 


FAREWELL!  for  here  the  ways  at  last 
Divide — diverge,  like  delta'd  Nile. 
Which  after  desert  dangers  pass'd 
Of  many  and  many  a  thousand  mile, 
As  constant  as  a  column  stone, 
Seeks  out  the  sea,  divorced — alone. 


And  you  and  I  have  buried  Love, 
A  red  seal  on  the  coffin's  lid; 
The  clerk  below,  the  Court  above, 
Pronounce  it  dead:  the  corpse  is  hid 
And  I  who  never  cross'd  your  will 
Consent. .  .that  you  may  have  it  still. 

244 


MYRRH.  245 

Farewell!  a  sad  word  easy  said 
And  easy  sung,  I  think,  by  some. . . . 

1  clutch'd  my  hands,  I  turn'd  my  head 

In  my  endeavor  and  was  dumb; 

And  when  I  should  have  said,  Farewell, 

I  only  murmur'd,  "  This  is  hell." 

What  recks  it  now  whose  was  the  blame? 
But  call  it  mine;  for  better  used 
Am  I  to  wrong  and  cold  disdain, 
Can  better  bear  to  be  accused 
Of  all  that  wears  the  shape  of  shame, 
Than  have  you  bear  one  touch  of  blame. 

I  set  my  face  for  power  and  place, 
My  soul  is  toned  to  sullenness, 
My  heart  holds  not  one  sign  nor  trace 
Of  love,  or  trust,  or  tenderness. 
But  you — your  years  of  happiness 
God  knows  I  would  not  make  them  less. 

And  you  will  come  some  summer  eve, 
When  wheels  the  white  moon  on  her  track, 
And  hear  the  plaintive  night-bird  grieve, 
And  see  the  crickets  clad  in  black; 


246  MYRRH. 

Alone — not  far — a  little  spell, 

And  say,  "  Well,  yes,  he  loved  me  well;" 

And  sigh,  "Well,  yes,  I  mind  me  now, 
None  were  so  bravely  true  as  he; 
And  yet  his  love  was  tame  somehow, 
It  was  so  truly  true  to  me; 
I  wish'd  his  patient  love  had  less 
Of  worship  and  of  tenderness: 

"  I  wish  it  still,  for  thus  alone 
There  comes  a  keen  reproach  or  pain, 
A  feeling  I  dislike  to  own; 
Half  yearnings  for  his  voice  again, 
Half  longings  for  his  earnest  gaze, 
To  know  him  mine  always — always." 
*  #  #  #  # 

I  make  no  murmur;  steady,  calm, 
Sphinx-like  I  gaze  on  days  ahead. 
No  wooing  word,  no  pressing  palm, 
No  sealing  love  with  lips  seal-red, 
No  waiting  for  some  dusk  or  dawn, 
No  sacred  hour all  are  gone. 

I  go  alone;  no  little  hands 


MYRRH.  247 

To  lead  me  from  forbidden  ways, 
No  little  voice  in  other  lands 
To  cheer  through  all  the  weary  days; 
Yet  these  are  yours,  and  that  to  me 
Is  much  indeed ....  So  let  it  be 

...  A  last  look  from  my  mountain  wall  .-. . 
I  watch  the  red  sun  wed  the  sea 
Beside  your  home  .  .  .  the  tides  will  fall 
And  rise,  but  nevermore  shall  we 
Stand  hand  in  hand  and  watch  them  flow, 
As  we  once  stood  .  .  .  Christ!  this  is  so! 

But,  when  the  stately  sea  comes  in 
With  measured  tread  and  mouth  afoam, 
My  darling  cries  above  the  din, 
And  asks,  "  Has  father  yet  come  home?" 
Then  look  into  the  peaceful'sky, 
And  answer,  gently,  "  By  and  by." 


One  deep  spring  in  a  desert  sand, 
One  moss'd  and  mystic  pyramid, 
A  lonely  palm  on  either  hand, 
A  fountain  in  a  forest  hid, 


248  MYRRH. 

Are  all  my  life  has  realized 
Of  all  I  cherish'd,  all  I  prized: 

Of  all  I  dream'd  in  early  youth 
Of  love  by  streams  and  love-lit  ways, 
While  my  heart  held  its  type  of  truth 
Through  all  the  tropic  gdlden  days, 
And  I  the  oak,  and  you  the  vine, 
Clung  palm  in  palm  through  cloud  or  shine. 

Some  time  when  clouds  hang  overhead, 
(What  weary  skies  without  one  cloud!) 
You  may  muse  on  this  love  that's  dead, 
Muse  calm  when  not  so  cold  or  proud, 
And  say,  "  At  last  it  comes  to  me, 
That  none  was  ever  true  as  he." 

My  sin  was  that  I  loved  too  much — 
But  I  enlisted  for  the  war, 
Till  we  the  deep-sea  shore  should  touch, 
Beyond  Atlanta — near  or  far — 
And  truer  soldier  never  yet 
Bore  shining  sword  or  bayonet. 

I  did  not  blame  you — do  not  blame. 
The  stormy  elements  of  soul 


MYRRH.  249 

That  I  did  scorn  to  tone  or  tame, 
Or  bind  down  unto  dull  control 
In  full  fierce  youth,  they  all  are  yours, 
With  all  their  folly  and  their  force. 

God  keep  you  pure,  oh,  very  pure, 
God  give  you  grace  to  dare  and  do; 
God  give  you  courage  to  endure 
The  all  He  may  demand  of  you, — 
Keep  time-frosts  from  your  raven  hair, 
And  your  young  heart  without  a  care. 

I  make  no  murmur  nor  complain; 
Above  me  are  the  stars  and  blue 
Alluring  far  to  grand  refrain; 
Before,  the  beautiful  and  true, 
To  love  or  hate,  to  win  or  lose; 
Lo!  I  will  now  arise,  and  choose. 

But  should  you  sometime  read  a  sign, 
A  name  among  the  princely  few, 
In  isles  of  song  be"yond  the  brine, 
Then  you  will  think  a  time,  and  you 
Will  turn  and  say,  "  He  once  was  mine, 
Was  all  my  own;  his  smiles,  his  tears 
Were  mine — were  mine  for  years  and  years." 


EVEN  SO. 


,  and  eternal  tents 
Of  snow  that  flash  o'er  battlements 
Of  mountains!    My  land  of  the  sun, 
Am  1  not  true?  have  I  not  done 
All  things  for  thine,  for  thee  alone, 
O  sun-land,  sea-land,  thou  mine  ownf 
Be  my  reward  some  little  place 
To  pitch  my  tent,  some  tree  and  vine 
Where  I  may  sit  with  lifted  face, 
And  drink  the  sun  as  drinking  wine  : 
Where  sweeps  the  Oregon,  and  where 
White  storms  are  in  the  feathered  fir. 

IN  the  shadows  a-west  of  the  sunset  mountains, 
Where  old-time  giants  had  dwelt  and  peopled, 
And  built  up  cities  and  castled  battlements, 
And  rear'd  up  pillars  that  pierced  the  heavens, 
A  poet  dwelt,  of  the  book  of  Nature  — 
An  ardent  lover  of  the  pure  and  beautiful, 
Devoutest  lover  of  the  true  and  beautiful. 
Profoundest  lover  of  the  grand  and  beautiful  — 
With  a  heart  all  impulse,  intensest  passion, 
Who  believed  in  love  as  in  God  Eternal  — 
A  dream  while  the  waken'd  world  went  over, 
An  Indian  summer  of  the  sullen  seasons; 

250 


EVEN   SO.  251 

And  he  sang  wild  songs  like  the  wind  in  cedars, 
Was  tempest-toss'd  as  the  pines,  yet  ever 
As  fix'd  in  truth  as  they  in  the  mountains. 


He  had   heard  a  name  as   one  hears  of  a 

princess, 

Her  glory  had  come  unto  him  in  stories; 
From  afar  he  had  look'd  as  entranced  upon  her; 
He  gave  her  name  to  the  wind  in  measures, 
And    he  heard    her  name  in  the  deep-voiced 

cedars, 

And  afar  in  the  winds  rolling  on  like  the  billows, 
Her  name  in  the  name  of  another  for  ever 
Gave  all  his  numbers  their  grandest  strophes; 
He    enshrined  her  image   in   his  heart's  high 

temple, 
And  saint-like  held  her,  too  sacred  for  mortal. 

***** 

He  came  to  fall  like  a  king  of  the  forest 
Caught    in    the    strong   stormy    arms    of    the 

wrestler; 

Forgetting  his  songs,  his  crags  and  his  mount- 
ains, 
And  nearly  his  God,  in  his  wild  deep  passion; 


252  EVEN   SO. 

And  when  he  had  won  her  and  turn'd  him  home- 
ward, 
With  the  holiest  pledges  love  gives  its  lover, 

The  mountain  route  was  as  strewn  with  roses. 
Can  a  high  love  then  be  a  thing  unholy, 
To  make  us  better  and  bless'd  supremely? 
The  day  was  fix'd  for  the  feast  and  nuptials; 
He  crazed  with  impatience  at  the  tardy  hours; 
He  flew  in  the  face  of  old  Time  as  a  tyrant; 
He  had  fought  the  days  that  stood  still  between 

them, 

One  by  one,  as  you  fight  with  a  foeman, 
Had  they  been  animate  and  sensate  beings. 

At  last  then  the  hour  came  coldly  forward. 
When  Mars  was  trailing  his  lance  on  the  mount- 
ains 

He  rein'd  his  steed  and  look'd  down  in  the  canon 
To  where  she  dwelt,  with  a  heart  of  fire; 
He  kiss'd  his  hand  to  the  smoke  slow  curling, 
Then  bow'd  his  head  in  devoutest  blessing. 
His  spotted  courser  did  plunge  and  fret  him 
Beneath  his  gay  and  silk-fringed  carona. 
And  toss  his  neck  in  a  black  mane  banner'd; 


EVEN   SO.  253 

Then  all  afoam,  plunging  iron-footed, 

Dash'd  him  swift  down  with  a  wild  impatience. 

A  coldness  met  him,  like  the  breath  of  a 
cavern, 

As  he  joyously  hasten'd  across  the  threshold. 

She  came,  and  coldly  she  spoke  and  scornful, 

In  answer  to  warm  and  impulsive  passion. 

All  things  did  array  them  in  shapes  most  hate- 
ful, 

And  life  did  seem  but  a  jest  intolerable. 

He  dared  to  question  her  why  this  estrange- 
ment: 

She  spoke  with  a  strange  and  stiff  indifference, 

And  bade  him  go  on  all  alone  life's  journey. 

Then  stern  and  tall  he  did  stand  up  before  her, 
And  gaze  dark-brow'd  through  the  low  narrow 

casement. 

For  a  time,  as  if  warring  in  thought  with  a  pas- 
sion; 

Then,  crushing  hard  down  the  hot  welling  bit- 
terness, 

He  folded  his  form  in  a  sullen  silentness 
And  turn'd  for  ever  away  from  her  presence: 


254  EVEN   SO. 

Bearing  his  sorrow  like  some  great  burden, 
Like  a  black  night-mare  in  his  hot  heart  muffled; 
With  his  faith  in  the  truth  of  woman  broken. 

#  *  *  *  •           * 

'Mid  Theban  pillars,  where  sang  the  Pindar, 
Breathing  the  breath  of  the  Grecian  islands, 
Breathing  in  spices  and  olive  and  myrtle, 
Counting  the  caravans,  curl'd  and  snowy, 
Slow  journeying  over  his  head  to  Mecca 
Or  the  high  Christ-land  of  most  holy  memory, 
Counting  the  clouds  through  the  boughs  above 

him, 
That   brush'd   white   marbles    that    time    had 

chisel'd 

And  rear'd  as  tombs  on  the  great  dead  city, 
Letter'd  with  solemn  but  unread  moral — 
A  poet  rested  in  the  red-hot  summer. 
He  took  no  note  of  the  things  about  him, 
But  dream'd  and  counted  the  clouds  above  him; 
His  soul  was  troubled,  and  his  sad  heart's  Mecca 
Was  a  miner's  home  far  over  the  ocean, 
Banner'd  by  pines  that  did  brush  blue  heaven. 


EVEN   SO.  255 

He  read  to  himself  from  the  lines  of  sorrow 
That  came  as  a  wail  from  the  one  he  worshipp'd, 
Sent  over  the  seas  by  an  old  companion: 
They  spoke  no  word  of  him,  or  remembrance. 
And  he  was  most  sad,  for  he  felt  forgotten, 
And  said:  "In  the  leaves  of  her  fair  heart's 

album 

She  has  cover'd  my  face  with  the  face  of  another. 
Let  the  great  sea  lift  like  a  wall  between  us, 
•  High-back'd,  with  his  mane  of  white  storms  for 

ever — 

I  shall  learri  to  love,  I  shall  wed  my  sorrow, 
I  shall  take  as  a  spouse  the  days  that  are  per- 

ish'd; 
I   shall  dwell  in  a  land  where  the  march  of 

genius 

Made  tracks  in  marble  in  the  days  of  giants; 
I  shall  sit  in  the  ruins  where  sat  the  Marius, 
Grey  with  the  ghosts  of  the  great  departed." 
And  then  he  said  in  the  solemn  twilight  :  .  . 

"Strangely  wooing  are  yon  worlds  above  us, 
Strangely  beautiful  is  the  Faith  of  Islam, 
Strangely  sweet  are  the  songs  of  Solomon, 
Strangely  tender  are  the  teachings  of  Jesus, 


256  EVEN    SO. 

Strangely  cold  is  the  sun  on  the  mountains, 
Strangely  mellow  is  the  moon  on  old  ruins, 
Strangely  pleasant  are  the  stolen  waters, 
Strangely  lighted  is  the  North  night-region, 
Strangely  strong  are  the  streams  in  the  ocean, 
Strangely  true  are  the  tales  of  the  Orient, 
But  stranger  than  all  are  the  ways  of  women." 

His  head  on  his  hands  and  his  hands  on  the 

marble, 

Alone  in  the  moonlight  he  slept  in  the  ruins; 
And  a  form  was  before  him  white-mantled  in 

moonlight, 
And  bitter hesaid  totheonehehad  worshipp'd — 

"  Your  hands  in  mine,  your  face,  your  eyes 
Look  level  into  mine,  and  mine 
Are  not  abashed  in  anywise 
As  eyes  were  in  an  elder  syne. 
Perhaps  the  pulse  is  colder  now, 
And  blood  comes  tamer  to  the  brow 
Because  of  hot  blood  long  ago .... 
Withdraw  your  hand?. . .  .Well,  be  it  so, 
And  turn  your  bent  head  slow  sidewise, 
For  recollections  are  as  seas 


EVEN    SO.  257 

That  come  and  go  in  tides,  and  these 
Are  flood-tides  filling  to  the  eyes, 

"  How  strange  that  you  above  the  vale 
And  I  below  the  mountain  wall 
Should  walk  and  meet!.. Why,  you  are  pale!.. 
Strange  meeting  on  the  mountain  fringe!.. 

More  strange  we  ever  met  at  all ! 

Tides  come  and  go,  we  know  their  time; 
The  moon,  we  know  her  wane  or  prime: 
But  who  knows  how  the  heart  may  hinge? 

"You  stand  before  me  here  to-night, 
But  not  beside  me,  not  beside — 
Are  beautiful,  but  not  a  bride. 
Some  things  I  recollect  aright, 
Though  full  a  dozen  years  are  done 
Since  we  two  met  one  winter  night — 
Since  I  was  crush'd  as  by  a  fall; 
For  I  have  watch'd  and  pray'd  through  all 
The  shining  circles  of  the  sun. 

"  I  saw  you  where  sad  cedars  wave; 
I  sought  you  in  the  dewy  eve 
When  shining  crickets  trill  and  grieve: 

17 


a   B  EVEN  so. 

You  smiled,  and  I  became  a  slave. 
A  slave!  I  worshipp'd  you  at  night. 
When  all  the  blue  field  blossom'd  red 
With  dewy  roses  overhead 
In  sweet  and  delicate  delight. 
I  was  devout.     I  knelt  that  night 
To  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  break  the  spell; 
My  prison'd  soul  refused  to  rise 
And  image  saints  in  Paradise, 
While  one  was  here  before  my  eyes, 

"Some  things  are  sooner  marr'd  than  made. 
A  frost  fell  on  a  soul  that  night, 
A  soul  was  black  that  erst  was  white. 
And  you  forget  the  place — the  night! 
Forget  that  aught  was  done  or  said — 
Say  this  has  pass'd  a  long  decade — 
Say  not  a  single  tear  was  shed — 
Say  you  forget  these  little  things ! 
Is  not  your  recollection  loth? 
Well,  little  bees  have  bitter  stings, 
And  I  remember  for  us  both. 

"No,  not  a  tear.     Do  men  complain? 
The  outer  wound  will  show  a  stain, 


EVEN   SO.  259 

And  we  may  shriek  at  idle  pain; 
But  pierce  the  heart,  and  not  a  word, 
Or  wail,  or  sign,  is  seen  or  heard. 

"  I  did  not  blame — I  do  not  blame, 
My  wild  heart  turns  to  you  the  same, 
Such  as  it  is;  but  oh,  its  meed 
Of  faithfulness  and  trust  and  truth, 
And  gushing  confidence  of  youth, 
I  caution,  you,  is  small  indeed, 

"  I  follow'd  you,  I  worshipp'd  you 
And  I  would  follow,  worship  still; 
But  if  I  felt  the  blight  and  chill 
Of  frosts  in  my  uncheerful  spring, 
And  show  it  now  in  riper  years 
In  answer  to  this  love  you  bring — 
In  answer  to  this  second  love. 
This  wail  of  an  unmated  dove. 
In  cautious  answer  to  your  tears — 
You,  vou  know  who  taught  me  disdain. 
But  deem  you  I  would  deal  you  pain? 
I  joy  to  know  your  heart  is  light, 
I  journey  glad  to  know  it  thus, 
And  could  I  dare  to  make  it  less? 
Yours — you  are  day,  but  I  am  night. 


26O  EVEN   SO. 

"God  knows  I  would  descend  to-day 
Devoutly  on  my  knees,  and  pray 
Your  way  might  be  one  path  of  peace 
Through  bending  boughs  and  blossom'd  trees, 
And  perfect  bliss  through  roses  fair; 
But  know  you,  back — one  long  decade — 
How  fervently,  how  fond  I  pray'd? — 
What  was  the  answer  to  that  prayer? 

"The  tale  is  old,  and  often  told 
And  lived  by  more  than  you  suppose — 
The  fragrance  of  a  summer  rose 
Press'd  down  beneath  the  stubborn  lid, 
When  sun  and  song  are  hush'd  and  hid, 
And  summer  days  are  grey  and  old. 

"We  parted  so.     Amid  the  bays 
And  peaceful  palms  and  song  and  shade 
Your  cheerful  feet  in  pleasure  stray'd 
Through  all  the  swift  and  shining  days. 

"  You  made  my  way  another  way, 
You  bade  it  should  not  be  with  thine — 
A  fierce  and  cheerless  route  was  mine: 
But  we  have  met,  at  last,  to-day. 


EVEN   SO.  26l 

"You  talk  of  tears — of  bitter  tears— 
And  tell  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 
And  I  re-live  some  stinging  jeers, 
Back,  far  back,  in  the  leaden  years. 
A  lane  without  a  turn  is  long, 
I  muse,  and  whistle  a  reply — 
Then  bite  my  lips  to  crush  a  sigh. 

"You  sympathize  that  I  am  sad, 
I  sigh  for  you  that  you  complain, 
I  shake  my  yellow  hair  in  vain, 
I  laugh  with  lips,  but  am  not  glad. 

***** 

..."  His  was  a  hot  love  of  the  hours, 
And  love  and  lover  both  are  flown; 
Now  you  walk,  like  a  ghost,  alone. 
He  sipp'd  your  sunny  lips,  and  he 
Took  all  their  honey:  now  the  bee 
Bends  down  the  heads  of  other  flowers 
And  other  lips  lift  up  to  kiss  .  .  . 
...  I  am  not  cruel,  yet  I  find 
A  savage  solace  for  the  mind 
And  sweet  delight  in  saying  this  .  .  . 
Now  you  are  silent,  white,  and  you 
Lift  up  your  hands  as  making  sign, 


EVEN  so. 


And  your  rich  lips  lie  thin  and  blue 
And  ashen  .  .  .  and  you  writhe,  and  you 
Breathe  quick  and  tremble  ...  is  it  true 
The  soul  takes  wounds,  sheds  blood  like  wine  ? 
***** 

.  .  .  "You  seem  so  most  uncommon  tall 
Against  the  lonely  ghostly  moon, 
That  hurries  homeward  oversoon, 
And  hides  behind  you  and  the  pines  ; 
And  your  two  hands  hang  cold  and  small, 
And  your  two  thin  arms  lie  like  vines, 
Or  winter  moonbeams  on  a  wall. 
.  .  .  What  if  you  be  a  weary  ghost, 
And  I  but  dream,  and  dream  I  wake? 
Then  wake  me  not,  and  my  mistake 

Is  not  so  bad:  let's  make  the  most 
Of  all  we  get,  asleep,  awake  — 
And  waste  not  one  sweet  thing  at  alL 
God  knows  that,  at  the  best,  life  brings 
The  soul's  share  so  exceeding  small 
\Ve  weary  for  some  better  things, 
And  hunger  even  unto  death. 
Laugh  loud,  be  glad  with  ready  breath, 
For  after  all  are  joy  and  grief 


EVEN   SO.  263 

Not  merely  matters  of  belief? 
And  what  is  certain,  after  all, 
But  death,  delightful,  patient  death? 
The  cool  and  perfect,  peaceful  sleep, 
Without  one  tossing  hand,  or  deep 
Sad  sigh  and  catching  in  of  breath! 

"  Be  satisfied.     The  price  of  breath 
Is  paid  in  toil.     But  knowledge  is 
Bought  only  with  a  weary  care, 
And  wisdom  means  a  world  of  pain .... 
Well,  we  have  suffered,  will  again, 
And  we  can  work  and  wait  and  bear, 
Strong  in  the  certainty  of  bliss. 
Death  is  delightful:  after  death 
Breaks  in  the  dawn  of  perfect  day. 
Let  question  he  who  will:  the  may 
Throws  fragrance  far  beyond  the  wall. 
I  pass  no  word  with  such:  'tis  fit 
To  pity  such:  therefore  I  say 
Be  wise  and  make  the  best  of  it; 
Content  and  strong  against  the  fall. 

41  Death  is  delightful.     Death  is  dawn. 
Fame  is  not  much,  love  is  not  much, 


264  EVEN   SO. 

Yet  what  else  is  there  worth  the  touch 
Of  lifted  hand  with  dagger  drawn? 
So  surely  life  is  little  worth: 
Therefore  I  say,  Look  up;  therefore 
I  say,  One  little  star  has  more 
Bright  gold  than  all  the  earth  of  earth. 

"  Yet  we  must  labor,  plant  to  reap — 
Life  knows  no  folding  up  of  hands — 
Must  plough  the  soul,  as  ploughing  lands, 
In  furrows  fashion'd  strong  and  deep. 
Life  has  its  lesson.     Let  us  learn 
The  hard,  long  lesson  from  the  birth, 
And  be  content;  stand  breast  to  breast, 
And  bear  and  battle  till  the  rest. 
Yet  I  look  to  yon  stars,  and  say. 
Thank  Christ,  ye  are  so  far  away 
That  when  I  win  you  I  can  turn 
And  look,  and  see  no  sign  of  earth. 
*  *  #  *  # 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 

MID  white  Sierras,  that  slope  to  the  sea, 
Lie  turbulent  lands.     Go  dwell  in  the 

skies, 

And  the  thundering  tongues  of  Yosemite 
Shall  persuade  you  to  silence,  and  you  shall  be 
wise. 

I  but  sing  for  the  love  of  song  and  the  few 
Who  loved  me  first  and  shall  love  me  last; 
And  the  storm  shall  pass  as  the  storms  have 
pass'd, 

For  never  were  clouds  but  the  sun  came  through. 


265 


INA. 

SAD  song  of  the  wind  in  the  mountains 
And  the  sea-wave  of  grass  on  the  plain. 
That  breaks  in  bloom-foam  by  the  fountains. 
And  forests,  that  breaketh  again 
On  the  mountains,  as  breaketh  a  main. 

Bold  thoughts  that  were  strong  as  the  grizzlies, 
But  now  weak  in  their  prison  of  words; 
Bright  fancies  that  flashed  like  the  glaciers. 
Now  dimmed  like  the  lustre  of  birds. 
And  butterfles  huddled  as  herds. 

Sad  symphony,  wild,  and  unmeasured, 
Weed  warp,  and  woof  woven  in  strouds 
Strange  truths  that  a  stray  soul  has  treasured. 
Truths  seen  as  through  folding  of  shrouds, 
Or  as  stars  through  the  rolling  of  clouds. 


266 


SCENE  I. 

A  Hacienda  near  Tezcuco,  Mexico.  Young  DON 
CARLOS  alone,  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  tnount- 
ain. 

DON  CARLOS. 

POPOCATAPETL  looms  lone  like  an  island, 
Above  white-cloud  waves  that  break  up 

against  him; 
Around  him  white  buttes  in  the  moonlight  are 

flashing 
Like  silver  tents  pitch'd  in  the  fair  fields  of 

heaven 

While  standing  in  line,  in  their  snows  everlast- 
ing, 

Flash  peaks,  as  my  eyes  into  heaven  are  lifted, 
Like  milestones  that  lead  to  the  city  eternal. 

Ofttime  when  the  sun  and  the  sea  lay  to 

gether, 

Red-welded  as  one,  in  their  red  bed  of  lovers 
Embracing  and  blushing  like  loves  newly  wed- 
ded, 

267 


268  INA. 

I  have  trod  on  the  trailing  crape  fringes  of  twi- 
light, 

And  stood  there  and  listen'd,  and  lean'd  with 
lips  parted, 

Till  lordly  peaks  wrapp'd  them,  as  chill  night 
blew  over, 

In  great  cloaks  of  sable,  like  proud  sombre 
Spaniards, 

And  stalk'd  from  my  presence  down  night's 
corridors. 


When  the  red-curtain'd  West  has  bent  red  as 
with  weeping 

Low  over  the  couch  where  the  prone  day  lay 
dying, 

I  have  stood  with  brow  lifted,  confronting  the 
mountains 

That  held  their  white  faces  of  snow  in  the 
heavens, 

And  said,  "  It  is  theirs  to  array  them  so  purely, 

Because  of  their  nearness  to  the  temple  eter- 
nal;" 

And  child-like  have  said,  "  They  are  fair  rest- 
ing places 


INA.  269 

For  the  dear  weary  dead  on  their  way  up  to 
heaven." 

But  my  soul  is  not  with  you  to-night,  mighty 

mountains: 

It  is  held  to  the  levels  of  earth  by  an  angel 
Far  more  than  a  star,  earth  fall'n  or  unfall'n, 
Yet  fierce  in  her  follies   and  headstrong  and 

stronger 

Than  streams  of  the  sea  running  in  with  the  bil- 
lows. 

Very  well.  Let  him  woo,  let  him  thrust  his 
white  whiskers 

And  lips  pale  and  purple  with  death,  in  be- 
tween us; 

Let  her  wed,  as  she  wills,  for  the  gold  of  the 
grey-beard. 

I  will  set  my  face  for  you,  O  mountains,  my 
brothers, 

For  I  yet  have  my  honor,  my  conscience  and 
freedom, 

My  fleet-footed  mustang  and  pistols  rich  sil- 
ver'd; 

I  will  turn  as  the  earth  turns  her  back  on  the 
sun, 


2/6  INA. 

But  return  to  the  light  of  her  eyes  never  more, 
While  noons  have  a  night  and  white  seas  have 
a  shore. 

INA,  approaching. 

INA. 

'  I  have  come,  dear  Don  Carlos,  to  say  you  fare- 
well, 

I  shall  wed  with  Don  Castro  at  dawn  of  to- 
morrow, 

And  be  all  his  own — firm,  honest  and  faithful. 

I  have  promised  this  thing;  that  I  keep  my 
promise 

You  who  do  know  me  care  never  to  question. 

I  have  master'd  myself  to  say  this  thing  to  you; 

Hear  me :  be  strong,  then,  and  say  adieu  bravely ; 

The  world  is  his  own  who  will  brave  its  bleak 
hours. 

Dare,  then,  to  confront  the  cold  days  in  their 
column; 

As  they  march  down  upon  you,  stand,  hew  them 
to  pieces, 

One  after  another,  as  you  would  a  fierce  foeman, 

Till  not  oneabideth  between  two  true  bosoms." 


INA.  271" 

[DON  CARLOS,  with  a  laugh  of  scorn,  flics  from 

tlic  verandah,  mounts  horse,  and  disappears .] 

INA  {looking  out  into  the  night,  after  along  silence). 

How  doleful  the  night-hawk  screams  in  the 
heavens, 

How  dismally  gibbers  the  grey  coyote! 

Afar  to  the  south  now  the  turbulent  thunder, 

Mine  equal,  my  brother,  my  soul's  own  com- 
panion, 

Talks  low  in  his  sleep,  like  a  giant  deep-troubled ; 

Talks  fierce  in  accord  with  my  own  stormy  spirit. 


2/2  INA. 


SCENE  II. 

Sunset  on  a  spur  of  Mount  Hood.  LAMONTE  contem- 
plates the  scene. 

LAMONTE. 

AFLUSH'D  and  weary  messenger  a-west 
Is  standing  at  the  half-closed  door  of  day, 
As  he  would   say,    Good-night;    and   now  hi? 

bright 

Red  cap  he  tips  to  me  and  turns  his  face. 
Were  it  an  unholy  thing  to  say,  An  angel  now 
Beside  the  door  stood  with  uplifted  seal? 
Behold  the  door  seal'd  with  that  blood-red  seal 
Now  burning,  spreading  o'er  the  mighty  West. 
Never  again  shall  that  dead  day  arise 
Therefrom,  but  must  be  born  and   come  anew. 

The  tawny,  solemn  Night,  child  of  the  East, 
Her  mournful  robe  trails  o'er  the  distant  woods, 
And  comes  this  way  with  firm  and  stately  step. 
Afront,  and  very  high,  she  wears  a  shield, 
A  plate  of  silver,  and  upon  her  brow 
The  radiant  Venus  burns,  a  pretty  lamp. 


INA.  273 

Behold!  how  in  her  gorgeous  flow  of  hair 
Do  gleam  a  million  mellow  yellow  gems, 
That  spill  their  molten  gold  upon  the  dewy 

grass. 
Now  throned  on  boundless  plains,  and  gazing 

down 

So  calmly  on  the  red-seal'd  tomb  of  day, 
She  rests  her  form  against  the  Rocky  Mount- 
ains, 
And  rules  with  silent  power  a  peaceful  world. 

'Tis  midnight  now.      The  bent  and  broken 

moon. 

All  batter'd,  black,  as  from  a  thousand  battles, 
Hangs  silent  on  the  purple  walls  of  heaven. 
The  angel  warrior,  guard  of  the  gates  eternal, 
In  battle-harness  girt,  sleeps  on  the  field: 
But  when  to-morrow  comes,  when  wicked  men 
That  fret  the  patient  earth  are  all  astir, 
He  will  resume  his  shield,  and,  facing  earth- 
ward, 
The  gates  of  heaven  guard  from  sins  of  earth. 

'Tis  morn.    Behold  the  kingly  day  now  leaps 
The  eastern  wall  of  earth  with  sword  in  hand. 

18 


2/4  INA. 

And  clad  in  flowing  robe  of  mellow  light, 
Like  to  a  king  that  has  regain'd  his  throne, 
He  warms  his  drooping  subjects  into  joy, 
That  rise  renewed  to  do  him  fealty, 
And  rules  with  pomp  the  universal  world. 

DON  CARLOS  ascends  the  mountain  gesticulating  and 
talking  to  himself. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Oh  for  a  name  that  black-eyed  maids  would 

sigh 

And  lean  with  parted  lips  at  mention  of; 
That  I  should  seem  so  tall  in  minds  of  men 
That  I  might  walk  beneath  the  arch  of  heaven, 
And  pluck  the  ripe  red  stars  as  I  pass'd  on, 
As  favor'd  guests  do  pluck  the  purple  grapes 
That  hang  above  the  humble  entrance-way 
Of  palm-thatch'd  mountain-inn  of  Mexico, 
Oh,  I  would  give  the  green  leaves  of  my  life 
For  something  grand,  for  real  and  undream'd 

deeds! 

To  wear  a  mantle,  broad  and  richly  gemm'd 
As  purple  heaven  fringed  with  gold  at  sunset; 
To  wear  a  crown  as  dazzling  as  the  sun, 


INA.  2/5 

And,  holding  up  a  sceptre  lightning-charged, 

Stride  out  among  the  stars  as  I  have  strode 

A  barefoot  boy  among  the  buttercups. 

Alas!     I  am  so  restless.     There  is  that 

Within  me  doth  rebel  and  rise  against 

The  all  I  am  and  half  I  see  in  others; 

And  were't  not  for  contempt  of  coward  act 

Of  flying  all  defeated  from  the  world, 

As  if  I  fear'd  and  dared  not  face  its  ills, 

I  should  ere  this  have  known,  known  more  or 

less 

Than  any  flesh  that  frets  this  sullen  earth. 
I  know  not  where  such  thoughts  will  lead  me  to: 
I  have  had  fear  that  they  would  drive  me  mad, 
And  then  have  flatter'd  my  weak  self,  and  said 
The  soul's  outgrown  the  body — yea,  the  soul 
Aspires  to  the  stars,  and  in  its  struggles 
Does  make  the  dull  flesh  quiver  like  an  aspen. 

LAMONTE. 

What  waif  is  this  cast  here  upon  my  shore, 
From  seas  of  subtle  and  most  selfish  men? 

DON  CARLOS. 

Of  subtle  and  most  selfish  men! — ah,  that's 
the  term! 


2/6  INA. 

And  if  you  be  but  earnest  in  your  spleen, 
And  other  sex  across  man's  shoulders  lost, 
I'll  stand  beside  you  on  this  crag  and  howl 
And  hurl  my  clench'd  fists   down  upon  their 

heads, 
Till  I  am  hoarse  as  yonder  cataract. 

LAMONTE. 

Why,  no,  my  friend,  I'll  not  consent  to  that. 
No  true  man  yet  has  ever  woman  cursed. 
And  I — I  do  not  hate  my  fellow  man. 
For  man  by  nature  bears  within  himself 
Nobility  that  makes  him  half  a  god; 
But  as  in  somewise  he  hath  made  himself, 
His  universal  thirst  for  gold  and  pomp, 
And  purchased  fleeting  fame  and  bubble  honors, 
Forgetting  good,  so  mocking  helpless  age, 
And  rushing  rough-shod  o'er  lowly  merit, 
I  hold  him  but  a  sorry  worm  indeed; 
And  so  have  turn'd  me  quietly  aside 
To  know  the  majesty  of  peaceful  woods. 

DON  CARLOS  (as  if  alone}. 

The  fabled  fount  of  youth  led  many  fools, 
Zealous  in  its  pursuit,  to  hapless  death; 


INA.  277 

And  yet  this  thirst  for  fame,  this  hot  ambition, 
This  soft-toned  syren-tongue,  enchanting  Fame, 
Doth  lead  me  headlong  on  to  equal  folly, 
Like  to  a  wild  bird  charm'd  by  shining  coils 
And  swift  mesmeric  glance  of  deadly  snake: 
I  would  not  break  the  charm,  but  win  a  world 
Or  die  with  curses  blistering  my  lips. 

LAMONTE. 

Give  up  ambition,  fame  and  pride — 
By  pride  the  angels  fell. 

DON  CARLOS. 

By  pride  they  reached  a  place  from,  whence  to 
fall. 

LAMONTE. 

You  startle  me!     I  am  unused  to  hear 
Men  talk  these  fierce  and  bitter  thoughts;  and 

yet 

In  closed  recesses  of  my  soul  was  once 
A  dark  and  gloomy  chamber  where  they  dwelt. 
Give  up  ambition — yea,  crush  such  thoughts 
As  you  would  crush  from  hearth  a  scorpion 

brood: 


2/8  INA. 

For,  mark  me  well,  they'll  get  the  mastery, 
And  drive  you  on  to  death— or  worse,  across 
A  thousand  ruin'd  homes  and  broken  hearts. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Give  up  ambition!     Oh,  rather  than  die 
And  glide  a  lonely,  nameless,  shivering  ghost 
Down  some  dark  tide  of  utter  nothingness, 
I'd  write  a  name  in  blood  and  orphans'  tears. 
The  temple-burner  wiser  was  than  kings. 

LAMONTE. 
And  would  you  dare  the  curse  of  man  and — 

DON  CARLOS. 

Dare! 

I'd  dare  the  fearful  curse  of  God! 
I'd  build  a  pyramid  of  the  whitest  skulls, 
And  step  therefrom  unto  the  spotted  moon, 
And  thence  to  stars,  and  thence  to  central  suns. 
Then  with  one  grand  and  mighty  leap  would 

land 

Unhinder'd  on  the  shore  of  gods  of  old. 
There,  sword  in  hand,  unbared  and  unabash'd, 


INA.  279 

Would  stand  bold  forth  in  presence  of  the  God 
Of  gods  and  on  the  jewell'd  inner-side 
The  walls  of  heaven,  carve  with  keen  Damascus 
Steel,  and,  highest  up,  a  grand  and  titled  name 
That  time  nor  tide  could  touch  or  tarnish  ever. 

LAMONTE. 

Seek  not  to  crop  above  the  heads  of  men 
To  be  a  better  mark  for  envy's  shafts. 
Come  to  my  peaceful  home,  and  leave  behind 
These  stormy  thoughts  and  daring  aspirations. 
An  earthly  power's  a  thing  comparative. 
Is  not  a  petty  chief  of  some  lone  isle, 
With  half-a-dozen  nude  and  starving  subjects, 
As  much  a  king  as  he  the  Czar  of  Rusk? 
In  yonder  sweet  retreat  and  balmy  place 
I'll  abdicate,  and  you  be  chief  indeed. 
There  you  will  reign  and  tell  me  of  the  world, 
Its  life  and  lights,  its  sins  and  sickly  shadows. 
The  pheasant  will  reveille  beat  at  morn, 
And  rouse  us  to  the  battle  of  the  day. 
My  swarthy  subjects  will  in  circle  sit, 
And,  gazing  on  your  noble  presence,  deem 
You  great  indeed,  and  call  you  chief  of  chiefs; 
And,  knowing  no  one  greater  than  yourself 


28O  INA. 

In  all  the  leafy  borders  of  your  realm, 

'Gainst  what  can  pride  or  poor  ambition  chafe? 

'Twill  be  a  kingdom  without  king,  save  you, 
More  broad  than  that  the  cruel  Cortes  won, 
With  subjects  truer  than  he  ever  knew, 
That  know  no  law  but  only  Nature's  law, 
And  no  religion  know  but  that  of  love. 
There  truth  and  beauty  are,  for  there  is  Nature, 
Serene  and  simple.     She  will  be  our  priestess, 
And  in  her  calm  and  uncomplaining  face 
Why  we  will  read  well  her  rubric  and  be  wise. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Why,  truly  now,  this  fierce  and  broken  land, 
Seen  through  your  eyes,  assumes  a  fairer  shape. 
Lead  up,  for  you  are  nearer  God  than  I. 


INA.  28l 

SCENE  III. 

INA,  in  black,  alone.    Midnight. 
INA. 

T  WEEP?  I  weep?  I  laugh  to  think  of  it! 

1  I  lift  my  dark  brow  to  the  breath  of  the 
ocean, 

Soft  kissing  me  now  like  the  lips  of  my  mother, 

And  laugh  low  and  long  as  I  crush  the  brown 
grasses, 

To  think  I  should  weep!  Why,  I  never  wept — 
never, 

Not  even  in  punishments  dealt  me  in  childhood! 

Yea,  all  of  my  wrongs  and  my  bitterness  buried 

In  my  brave  baby  heart,  all  alone  and  un- 
friended. 

And  I  pitied,  with  proud  and  disdainfullest  pity, 

The  weak  who  would  weep,  and  I  laugh'd  at 
the  folly 

Of  those  who  could  laugh  and  make  merry  with 
playthings. 

I  will  not  weep  now  over  that  I  desired. 
Desired?  Yes:  I  to  myself  dare  confess  it, 


282  INA. 

Ah,  too,  to  the  world  should  it  question  too 

closely, 

And  bathe  me  and  sport  in  a  deep  sea  of  candor. 
Let  the  world  be  deceived:  it  insists  upon  it: 
Let  it  bundle  me  round  in  its  black  woe-gar- 
ments; 

But  I,  self  with  self — my  free  soul  fearless — 
Am  frank  as  the  sun,  nor  the  toss  of  a  copper 
Care  I  if  the  world  call  it  good  or  evil. 
I  am  glad  to-night,  and  in  new-born  freedom 
Forget  all  earth  with  my  old  companions,— 
The  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  moon-clad 

ocean. 

I  am  face  to  face  with  the  stars  that  know  me, 
And  gaze  as  I  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  my  mother, 
Forgetting  the  city  and  the  coarse  things  in  it; 
For  there's  naught  but  God  in  the  shape  of 

mortal, 

Save  one — my  wandering,  wild  boy-lover — 
That  I  do  esteem  worth  a  stale  banana. 

The  air  hangs   heavy   and   is   warm  on  my 

shoulder, 

And  is  thick  with  odors  of  balm  and  of  blossom; 
The  great  bay  sleeps  with  the  ships  on  her  bosom ; 


INA. 


283 


Through   the   Golden   Gate,  to   the   left-hand 

yonder, 

The  white  sea  lies  in  a  deep  sleep,  breathing, 
The  father  of  melody,  mother  of  measure. 


284  INA- 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Wood  by  a  rivulet  on  a  spur  of  Mount  Hood, 
overlooking  the  Columbia.  LAMONTE  and  DON 
CARLOS,  on  their  way  to  the  camp,  are  reposing 
under  the  shadow  of  the  forest.  Some  deer  ate 
observed  descending  to  the  brook,  and  DON  CAR- 
LOS seizes  his  rifle. 

LAMONTE. 

NAY,  nay,  my  friend,  strike  not  from  your 
covert  so, 

Strike  like  a  serpent  in  the  grass  well  hidden? 
What,  steal  into  their  homes,  and,  when  athirst 
And  unsuspecting,  they  come  down  in  couples 
And  dip  brown  muzzles  in  the  mossy  brink, 
Then  shoot  them  down  without  chance  to  fly — 
The  only  means  that  God  has  given  them, 
Poor,  unarm'd   mutes,  to  baffle  man's  cunning? 
Ah,  now  I  see  you  had  not  thought  of  this! 
The  hare  is  fleet,  and  is  most  quick  at  sound, 
His  coat  is  changed  with  all  the  changing  fields; 
Yon  deer  turn  brown  whene'er  the  leaves  turn 
brown; 


1NA.  285 

The  dog  has  teeth,  the  cat  has  teeth  and  claws 
And  man  has  craft  and  art  and  sinewy  arms: 
All  things  that  live  have  some  means  of  defence. 
All,  all — save  only  lovely  woman. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Nay,  woman  has  her  tongue — arm'd  to  the 
teeth. 

LAMONTE. 

Thou  Timon,  what  can  'scape  your  bitterness? 
But  for  this  sweet  content  of  Nature  here, 
Upon  whose  breast  we  now  recline  and  rest, 
Why,  you  might  lift  your  voice  and  rail  at  her! 

DON  CARLOS. 

Oh,  I  am  out  of  patience  with  your  faith! 
What!     She  content  and  peaceful,  uncomplain- 
ing? 

I've  seen  her  fretted  like  a  lion  caged, 
Chafe  like  a  peevish  woman  cross'd  and  churl'd, 
Tramping  and  foaming  like  a  whelpless  bear; 
Have  seen   her  weep  till  earth  was  wet  with 

tears, 
Then  turn  all  smiles — a  jade  that  won  her  point? 


286  INA. 

Have  seen  her  tear  the  hoary  hair  of  Ocean, 
While  he,  himself  full  half  a  world,  would  moan 
And  roll  and  toss  his  clumsy  hands  all  day 
To  earth  like  some  great  helpless  babe,  that  lay 
Rude-rock'd  and  cradled  by  an  unseen  nurse, 
Then  stain  her  snowy  hem  with  salt-sea  tears; 
And  when  the   peaceful,  mellow  moon   came 

forth, 

To  walk  and  meditate  among  the  blooms 
That  make  so  blest  the  upper  purple  fields, 
This  wroth  dyspeptic  sea  ran  after  her 
With  all  his  soul,  as  if  to  pour  himself, 
All  sick  and  helpless,  in  her  snowy  lap. 

Content!      Oh,    she  has  crack'd  the  ribs   of 

earth 
And  made  her  shake  poor  trembling  man  from 

off 

Her  back,  e'en  as  a  grizzly  shakes  the  hounds; 
She  has  upheaved  her  rocky  spine  against 
The  flowing  robes  of  the  Eternal  God. 

LAMONTE. 

There  once  was  one  of  nature  like  to  this: 
He  stood  a  barehead  boy  upon  a  cliff 


INA.  287 

Pine-crown'd,  that  hung  high  o'er  a  bleak  north 

sea. 
His  long  hair  stream'd  and  flash'd  like  yellow 

silk, 

His  sea-blue  eyes  lay  deep  and  still  as  lakes 
O'erhung  by  mountains  arch'd  in  virgin  snow; 
And  far  astray,  and  friendless  and  alone, 
A  tropic  bird  blown  through  the  north  frost- 
wind, 

He  stood  above  the  sea  in  the  cold  white  moon, 
His  thin  face  lifted  to  the  flashing  stars. 
He  talk'd  familiarly  and  face  to  face 
With  the  Eternal  God,  in  solemn  night, 
Confronting  Him  with  free  and  flippant  air 
As  one  confronts  a  merchant  o'er  his  counter, 
And  in  vehement  blasphemy  did  say: 
"  God,  put  aside  this  world — show  me  another! 
God,  this  world's  a  cheat — hand  down  another! 
I  will  not  buy — not  have  it  as  a  gift. 
Put  this  aside  and  hand  me  down  another — 
Another,  and  another,  still  another, 
Till  I  have  tried  the  fairest  world  that  hangs 
Upon  the  walls  and  broad  dome  of  your  shop. 
For  I  am  proud  of  soul  and  regal  born, 
And  will  not  have  a  cheap  and  cheating  world." 


288  INA. 

DON  CARLOS. 

The  noble  youth!  So  God  gave  him  another? 
LA  MONTE. 

A  bear,  as  in  old  time,  came  from  the  woods 
And  tare  him  there  upon  that  storm-swept  cliff — 
A  grim  and  grizzled  bear,  like  unto  hunger. 
A  tall  ship  sail'd  adown  the  sea  next  morn, 
And,  standing  with  his  glass  upon  the  prow, 
The  captain  saw  a  vulture  on  a  cliff, 
Gorging,  and  pecking,  stretching  his  long  neck, 
Bracing  his  raven  plumes  against  the  wind, 
Fretting  the  tempest  with  his  sable  feathers. 

A  Young  POET  ascends  the  mountain  and  approaches. 

DON  CARLOS. 
Ho!  ho!  whom  have    we   here?     Talk    of   the 

devil, 
And  he's  at  hand.    Say,  who  are  you,  and  whence  ? 

POET. 
I  am  a  poet,  and  dwell  down  by  the  sea. 

DON  CARLOS. 
A  poet'  a  poet,  forsooth!     A  hungry  fool! 


INA.  289 

Would  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  poet 

now? 

It  is  to  want  a  friend,  to  want  a  home, 
A  country,  money, — ay,  to  want  a  meal. 
It  is  not  wise  to  be  a  poet  now, 
For,  oh,  the  world  it  has  so  modest  grown 
It  will  not  praise  a  poet  to  his  face, 
But  waits  till  he  is  dead  some  hundred  years, 
Then  uprears  marbles  cold  and  stupid  as  itself. 

[  POET  rises  to  go. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Why,  what's  the  haste?    You'll  reach  there 
soon  enough. 

POET. 
Reach  where? 

DON  CARLOS. 

The  Inn  to  which  all  earthly  roads  do  tend: 
The  "neat  apartments  furnish'd — see  within;" 
The  "furnish'd  rooms  for  quiet,  single  gentle- 
men;" 

The  narrow  six-by-two  where  you  will  lie 
With  cold  blue  nose  up-pointing  to  the  grass, 

19 


290 

Labell'd  and  box'd,  and  ready  all  for  shipment. 
POET  (loosening  hair  and  letting  fall  a  mantle}. 

Ah  me!     My  Don  Carlos,  look  kindly  upon 

me! 
With  my  hand  on  your  arm  and  my  dark  brow 

lifted 

Full  level  to  yours,  do  you  not  now  know  me? 
'Tis  your  own,  own  INA,  you  loved  by  the  ocean, 
In  the  warm-spiced  winds  from  the  far  Cathay. 

DON  CARLOS  (bitterly}. 

With  the  smell  of  the  dead  man  still  upon  you! 
Your  dark  hair  wet  from  his  death-damp  fore- 
head! 

You  are  not  my  Ina,  for  she  is  a  memory. 
A  marble  chisell'd,  in  my  heart's  dark  chamber 
Set  up  for  ever,  and  naught  can  change  her; 
And  you  are  a  stranger,  and  the  gulf  between  us 
Is  wide  as  the  Plains,  and  as  deep  as  Pacific. 

And  now,  good-night.    In  your  scrape  folded 
Hard  by  in  the  light  of  the  pine-knot  fire, 
Sleep  you  as  sound  as  you  will  be  welcome; 
And  on  the  morrow —  now  mark  me,  madam — 


291 


When  to-morrow  comes,  why,  you  will  turn  you 
To  the  right  or  left  as  did  Father  Abram. 
Good-night,  for  ever  and  for  aye,  good-bye; 
My  bitter  is  sweet  and  your  truth  is  a  lie. 

INA  (letting  go  his  arm  and  stepping  back)  . 


Well  then!  'tis  over,  and  'tis  well  thus  ended: 
I  am  well  escaped  from  my  life's  devotion. 
The  waters  of  bliss  are  a  waste  of  bitterness; 
The  day  of  joy  I  did  join  hands  over, 
As  a  bow  of  promise  when  my  years  were  weary, 
And  set  high  up  as  a  brazen  serpent 
To  look  upon  when  I  else  had  fainted 
In  burning  deserts,  while  you  sipp'd  ices 
And  snowy  sherbets  and  roam'd  unfetter'd, 
Is  a  deadly  asp  in  the  fruit  and  flowers 
That  you  in  your  bitterness  now  bear  to  me; 
But  its  fangs  unfasten  and  it  glides  down  from 

me, 
From  a  Cleopatra  of  coid  white  marble. 

I  have  but  done  what  I  would  do  over, 
Did  I  find  one  worthy  of  so  much  devotion; 
And,  standing  here  with  my  clean  hands  folded 
Above  a  bosom  whose  crime  is  courage, 


2Q2  INA. 

The  only  regret  that  my  heart  discovers 

Is  that  I  should  do  and  have  dared  so  greatly 

For  the  love  of  one  who  deserved  so  little. 

Nay!  say  no  more,  nor  attempt  to  approach 

me! 

This  ten-feet  line  lying  now  between  us 
Shall  never  be  less  while  the  land  has  measure. 
See!  night  is  forgetting  the  east  in  the  heavens; 
The  birds   pipe    shrill   and    the    beasts    howl 

answer. 


JOAQUIN  MURIETTA. 

f^LINTINGS  of  day  in  the  darkness. 

Flashings  of  flint  and  of  steel. 
Blended  in  gossamer  texture 
The  ideal  and  the  real, 
Limn'd  like  the  phantom-ship  shadow. 
Crowding  up  under  the  keel. 

I  STAND  beside  the  mobile  sea; 
And  sails  are  spread,  and  sails  are  furl'd 
From  farthest  corners  of  the  world 
And  fold  like  white  wings  wearily. 
Some  ships  go  up.  and  some  go  down 
In  haste,  like  traders  in  a  town. 

Afar  at  sea  some  white  shapes  flee, 
With  arms  stretch'd  like  a  ghost's  to  me, 
And  cloud-like  sails  are  blown  and  curl'd, 
Then  glide  down  to  the  under-world. 
As  if  blown  bare  in  winter  blasts 
Of  leaf  and  limb,  tall  naked  masts 
Are  rising  from  the  restless  sea. 
I  seem  to  see  them  gleam  and  shine 
With  clinging  drops  of  dripping  brine. 

293 


294  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

Broad  still  brown  wings  flit  here  and  there, 
Thin  sea-blue  wings  wheel  everywhere, 
And  white  wings  whistle  through  the  air; 
I  hear  a  thousand  sea-gulls  call. 

Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer, 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands. 
The  ocean's  thin  and  hoary  hair 
Is  trail'd  along  the  silver'd  sands, 
At  every  sigh  and  sounding  moan. 
The  very  birds  shriek  in  distress 
And  sound  the  ocean's  monotone. 
'Tis  not  a  place  for  mirthfulness, 
But  meditation  deep,  and  prayer, 
And  kneelings  on  the  salted  sod, 
Where  man  must  own  his  littleness 
And  know  the  mightiness  of  God. 

Dared  I  but  say  a  prophecy, 
As  sang  the  holy  men  of  old, 
Of  rock-built  cities  yet  to  be 
Along  these  shining  shores  of  gold, 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA.  2Q5 

Crowding  athirst  into  the  sea, 
What  wondrous  marvels  might  be  told! 
Enough,  to  know  that  empire  here 
Shall  burn  her  loftiest,  brightest  star; 
Here  art  and  eloquence  shall  reign, 
As  o'er  the  wolf-rear'd  realm  of  old; 
Here  learn'd  and  famous  from  afar, 
To  pay  their  noble  court,  shall  come, 
And  shall  not  seek  or  see  in  vain, 
But  look  on  all  with  wonder  dumb. 

Afar  the  bright  Sierras  lie 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  in  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 

I  look  along  each  gaping  gorge, 
I  hear  a  thousand  sounding  strokes 
Like  giants  rending  giant  oaks, 
Or  brawny  Vulcan  at  his  forge; 
I  see  pick-axes  flash  and  shine 
And  great  wheels  whirling  in  a  mine. 
Here  winds  a  thick  and  yellow  thread, 
A  moss'd  and  silver  stream  instead; 
And  trout  that  leap'd  its  rippled  tide 
Have  turn'd  upon  their  sides  and  died. 


296  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

Lo!  when  the  last  pick  in  the  mine 
Lies  rusting  red  with  idleness, 
And  rot  yon  cabins  in  the  mold, 
And  wheels  no  more  croak  in  distress, 
And  tall  pines  re-assert  command 
Sweet  bards  along  this  sunset  shore 
Their  mellow  melodies  will  pour; 
Will  charm  as  charmers  very  wise, 
Will  strike  the  harp  with  master  hand. 
Will  sound  unto  the  vaulted  skies, 
The  valor  of  these  men  of  old — 
The  mighty  men  of  'Forty-nine; 
Will  sweetly  sing  and  proudly  say, 
Long,  long  agone  there  was  a  day 
When  there  were  giants  in  the  land. 

Now  who  rides  rushing  on  the  sight 
Hard  down  yon  rocky  long  defile, 
Swift  as  an  eagle  in  his  flight, 
Fierce  as  a  winter's  storm  at  night 
Blown  from  the  bleak  Sierra's  height? 
Such  reckless  rider! — I  do  ween 
No  mortal  man  his  like  has  seen. 
And  yet,  but  for  his  long  serape 
All  flowing  loose,  and  black  as  crape, 


JOAQUIN    MUR1ETTA.  2Q/ 

And  long  silk  locks  of  blackest  hair 
All  streaming  wildly  in  the  breeze, 
You  might  believe  him  in  a  chair, 
Or  chatting  at  some  country  fair 
He  rides  so  grandly  at  his  ease. 

But  now  he  grasps  a  tighter  rein, 
A  red  rein  wrought  in  golden  chain, 
And  in  his  tapidaros  stands, 
Half  turns  and  shakes  two  bloody  hands, 
And  shouts  defiance  at  his  foe. 
And  now  he  calmly  bares  his  brow 
As  if  to  challenge  fate,  and  now 
His  hand  drops  to  his  saddle-bow 
And  clutches  something  gleaming  there 
As  is  to  something  more  than  dare. 

The  stray  winds  lift  the  raven  curls, 
Soft  as  a  fair  Castilian  girl's, 
And  press  a  brow  so  full  and  high 
Its  every  feature  does  belie 
The  thought  he  is  compell'd  to  fly; 
A  brow  as  open  as  the  sky 
On  which  you  gaze  and  gaze  again 
As  on  a  picture  you  have  seen 


298  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

And  often  sought  to  see  in  vain, 

That  seems  to  hold  a  tale  of  woe 

Or  wonder,  that  you  fain  would  know; 

A  brow  cut  deep  as  with  a  knife, 

With  many  a  dubious  deed  in  life; 

A  brow  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 

And  yearnings  for  what  should  have  beea 

Again  he  grasps  his  gutt'ring  rein, 
And  wheeling  like  a  hurricane, 
Defying  wood,  or  stone,  or  flood, 
Is  dashing  down  the  gorge  again. 
Oh,  never  yet  has  prouder  steed 
Borne  master  nobler  in  his  need! 
There  is  a  glory  in  his  eye 
That  seems  to  dare  and  to  defy 
Pursuit,  or  time,  or  space,  or  race. 
His  body  is  the  type  of  speed, 
While  from  his  nostril  to  his  heel 
Are  muscles  as  if  made  of  steel. 

What  crimes  have  made  that  red  hand  red? 
What  wrongs  have  written  that  young  face 
With  lines  of  thought  so  out  of  place? 
Where  flies  he?     And  from  whence  has  fled? 


JOAQU1N    MURIETTA. 

And  what  his  lineage  and  racer 
What  glitters  in  his  heavy  belt, 
And  from  his  furr'd  catenas  gleam? 
What  on  his  bosom  that  doth  seem 
A  diamond  bright  or  dagger's  hilt? 
The  iron  hoofs  that  still  resound 
Like  thunder  from  the  yielding  ground 
Alone  reply;  and  now  the  plain, 
Quick  as  you  breathe  and  gaze  again, 
Is  won,  and  all  pursuit  is  vain. 

***** 

I  stand  upon  a  stony  rim, 
Stone-paved  and  pattern'd  as  a  street; 
A  rock-lipp'd  canon  plunging  south, 
As  if  it  were  earth's  open'd  mouth, 
Yawns  deep  and  darkling  at  my  feet; 
So  deep,  so  distant,  and  so  dim 
Its  waters  wind,  a  yellow  thread, 
And  call  so  faintly  and  so  far, 
I  turn  aside  my  swooning  head. 
I  feel  a  fierce  impulse  to  leap 
Adown  the  beetling  precipice, 
Like  some  lone,  lost,  uncertain  star; 
To  plunge  into  a  place  unknown, 
And  win  a  world  all,  all  my  own; 


30O  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

Or  if  I  might  not  meet  that  bliss, 
At  least  escape  the  curse  of  this. 

I  gaze  again.     A  gleaming  star 
Shines  back  as  from  some  mossy  well 
Reflected  from  blue  fields  afar. 
Brown  hawks  are  wheeling  here  and  there, 
And  up  and  down  the  broken  wall 
Clings  clumps  of  dark  green  chaparral, 
While  from  the  rent  rocks,  grey  and  bare, 
Blue  junipers  hang  in  the  air. 

Here,  cedars  sweep  the  stream  and  here, 
Among  the  boulders  moss'd  and  brown 
That  time  and  storms  have  toppled  down 
From  towers  undefiled  by  man, 
Low  cabins  nestle  as  in  fear, 
And  look  no  taller  than  a  span. 
From  low  and  shapeless  chimneys  rise 
Some  tall  straight  columns  of  blue  smoke, 
And  weld  them  to  the  bluer  skies; 
While  sounding  down  the  sombre  gorge 
I  hear  the  steady  pick-axe  stroke, 
As  if  upon  a  flashing  forge. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA.  301 

Another  scene,  another  sound!— 
Sharp  shots  are  fretting  through  the  air, 
Red  knives  are  flashing  everywhere, 
And  here  and  there  the  yellow  flood 
Is  purpled  with  warm  smoking  blood. 
The  brown  hawk  swoops  low  to  the  ground, 
And  nimble  chip-munks,  small  and  still, 
Dart  striped  lines  across  the  sill 
That  lordly  feet  shall  press  no  more. 
The  flume  lies  warping  in  the  sun, 
The  pan  sits  empty  by  the  door, 
The  pick-axe  on  its  bed-rock  floor 
Lies  rusting  in  the  silent  mine. 
There  comes  no  single  sound  nor  sign 
Of  life,  beside  yon  monks  in  brown 
That  dart  their  dim  shapes  up  and  down 
The  rocks  that  swelter  in  the  sun; 
But  dashing  down  yon  rocky  spur, 
Where  scarce  a  hawk  would  dare  to  whirr, 
Fly  horsemen  reckless  in  their  flight. 
One  wears  a  flowing  black  capote, 
While  down  the  cape  doth  flow  and  float 
Long  locks  of  hair  as  dark  as  night, 
And  hands  are  red  that  erst  were  white. 


302  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

All  up  and  down  the  land  to-day 
Black  desolation  and  despair 
It  seems  have  sat  and  settled  there, 
With  none  to  frighten  them  away. 
Like  sentries  watching  by  the  way 
Black  chimneys  topple  in  the  air, 
And  seem  to  say,  Go  back,  beware! 
While  up  around  the  mountain's  rim 
Are  clouds  of  smoke,  so  still  and  grim 
They  look  as  they  are  fasten'd  there. 

A  lonely  stillness,  so  like  death, 
So  touches,  terrifies  all  things, 
That  even  rooks  that  fly  o'erhead 
Are  hush'd,  and  seem  to  hold  their  breath, 
To  fly  with  muffled  wings, 
And  heavy  as  if  made  of  lead. 
Some  skulls  that  crumble  to  the  touch, 
Some  joints  of  thin  and  chalk-like  bone, 
A  tall  black  chimney,  all  alone, 
That  leans  as  if  upon  a  crutch, 
Alone  are  left  to  mark  or  tell, 
Instead  of  cross  or  cryptic  stone, 
Where  fair  maids  loved  or  brave  men  fell. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA.  303 

The  sun  is  red  and  flush'd  and  dry, 
And  fretted  from  his  weary  beat 
Across  the  hot  and  desert  sky, 
And  swollen  as  from  overheat, 
And  failing  too;  for  see,  he  sinks 
Swift  as  a  ball  of  burnish'd  ore: 
It  may  be  fancy,  but  methinks 
He  never  fell  so  fast  before. 

I  hear  the  neighing  of  hot  steeds, 
I  see  the  marshalling  of  men 
That  silent  move  among  the  trees 
As  busily  as  swarming  bees 
With  step  and  stealthiness  profound, 
On  carpetings  of  spindled  weeds, 
Without  a  syllable  or  sound 
Save  clashing  of  their  burnish'd  arms, 
Clinking  dull  death-like  alarms — 
Grim  bearded  men  and  brawny  men 
That  grope  among  the  ghostly  trees. 
Were  ever  silent  men  as  these? 
Was  ever  sombre  forest  deep 
And  dark  as  this?     Here  one  might  sleep 
While  all  the  weary  years  went  round, 
Nor  wake  nor  weep  for  sun  or  sound. 


304  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

A  stone's-throw  to  the  right,  a  rock 
Has  rear'd  his  head  among  the  stars — 
An  island  in  the  upper  deep — 
And  on  his  front  a  thousand  scars 
Of  thunder's  crash  and  earthquake's  shock 
Are  seam'd  as  if  by  sabre's  sweep 
Of  gods,  enraged  that  he  should  rear 
His  front  amid  their  realms  of  air. 

What  moves  along  his  beetling  brow, 
So  small,  so  indistinct  and  far, 
This  side  yon  blazing  evening  star, 
Seen    through     that    redwood's     shifting 

bough? 

A  look-out  on  the  world  below? 
A  watcher  for  the  friend — or  foe? 
This  still  troop's  sentry  it  must  be, 
Yet  seems  no  taller  than  my  knee. 

But  for  the  grandeur  of  this  gloom, 
And  for  the  chafing  steeds'  alarms, 
And  brown  men's  sullen  clash  of  arms, 
This  were  but  as  a  living  tomb. 
These  weeds  are  spindled,  pale  and  white, 
As  if  nor  sunshine,  life,  nor  light 


JOAOUN    Ml-RlKTTA.  305 

Had  ever  reach 'd  this  forest's  heart. 

Above,  the  red-wood  boughs  entwine 

As  dense  as  copse  of  tangled  vine — 

Above,  so  fearfully  afar, 

It  seems  as  'twere  a  lesser  sky, 

A  sky  without  a  moon  or  star. 

The  moss'd  boughs  are  so  thick  and  high. 

At  every  lisp  of  leaf  I  start! 

Would  I  could  hear  a  cricket  trill, 

Or  that  yon  sentry  from  his  hill 

Might  shout  or  show  some  sign  of  life, 

The  place  does  seem  so  deathly  still. 

"  Mount  ye,  and  forward  for  the  strife!" 

Who  by  yon  dark  trunk  sullen  stands, 

With  black  scrape  and  bloody  hands, 

And  coldly  gives  his  brief  command? 

They  mount — away!  Quick  on  his  heel 
He  turns  and  grasps  his  gleaming  steel — 
Then  sadly  smiles,  and  stoops  to  kiss 
An  upturn'd  face  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sadly,  saintly,  purely  fair 
So  rich  of  blessedness  and  bliss! 
I  know  she  is  not  flesh  and  blood, 

But  some  sweet  spirit  of  this  wood; 
20 


3C)6  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

I  know  it  by  her  wealth  of  hair, 
And  step  on  the  unyielding  air; 
Her  seamless  robe  of  shining  white, 
Her  soul-deep  eyes  of  darkest  night; 
But  over  all  and  more  than  all 
That  can  be  said  or  can  befall, 
That  tongue  can  tell  or  pen  can  trace, 
That  wondrous  witchery  of  face. 

Between  the  trees  I  see  him  stride 
To  where  a  red  steed  fretting  stands 
Impatient  for  his  lord's  commands: 
And  she  glides  noiseless  at  his  side. 

One  hand  toys  with  her  waving  hair, 
Soft  lifting  from  her  shoulders  bare; 
The  other  holds  the  loosen'd  rein, 
And  rests  upon  the  swelling  mane 
That  curls  the  curved  neck  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  waves  that  swirl  along  the  shore. 
He  hears  the  last  retreating  sound 
Of  iron  on  volcanic  stone, 
That  echoes  far  from  peak  to  plain, 
And  'neath  the  dense  wood's  sable  zone, 
He  peers  the  dark  Sierras  down. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

His  hand  forsakes  her  raven  hair, 
His  eyes  have  an  unearthly  glare; 
She  shrinks  and  shudders  at  his  side, 
Then  lifts  to  his  her  moisten'd  eyes, 
And  only  looks  her  sad  replies. 
A  sullenness  his  soul  enthrals, 
A  silence  born  of  hate  and  pride; 
His  fierce  volcanic  heart  so  deep 
Is  stirr'd,  his  teeth,  despite  his  will, 
Do  chatter  as  if  in  a  chill; 
His  very  dagger  at  his  side 

Does  shake  and  rattle  in  its  sheath, 
As  blades  of  brown  grass  in  a  gale 
Do  rustle  on  the  frosted  heath: 
And  yet  he  does  not  bend  or  weep. 

As  gently  as  a  mother  bows 
Her  first-born  sleeping  babe  above, 
The  cherish'd  cherub  lips  to  kiss 
In  her  full  blessedness  and  bliss, 
He  bends  to  her  with  stately  air, 
His  proud  head  in  its  cloud  of  hair. 
I  do  not  hear  the  hallow'd  kiss; 
I  do  not  hear  the  hurried  vows 


30?  JOAQUIN    MURIETTA. 

Of  passion,  faith,  unfailing  love; 
I  do  not  mark  the  prison'd  sighs, 
I  do  not  meet  the  moisten'd  eyes. 

A  low  sweet  melody  is  heard 
Like  cooing  of  some  Balize  bird, 
So  fine  it  does  not  touch  the  air, 
So  faint  it  stirs  not  anywhere; 
Faint  as  the  falling  of  the  dew, 
Low  as  a  pure  unutter'd  prayer, 
The  meeting,  mingling,  as  it  were, 
In  that  one  long,  last,  silent  kiss 
Of  souls  in  paradisal  bliss. 

Erect,  again  he  grasps  the. rein 
So  tight,  as  to  the  seat  he  springs, 
I  see  his  black  steed  plunge  and  poise 
And  beat  the  air  with  iron  feet, 
And  curve  his  noble  glossy  neck, 
And  toss  on  high  his  swelling  mane, 
And  leap — away!  he  spurns  the  rein! 
He  flies  so  fearfully  and  fleet, 
But  for  the  hot  hoofs'  ringing  noise 
'Twould  seem  as  if  he  were  on  wings. 

And  she  is  gone!     Gone  like  a  breath, 
Gone  like  a  white  sail  seen  at  night 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA.  309 

A  moment,  and  then  lost  to  sight; 
Gone  like  a  star  you  look  upon, 
That  glimmers  to  a  bead,  a  speck, 
Then  softly  melts  into  the  dawn, 
And  all  is  still  and  dark  as  death. 


NOTE.- After  the  cruel  conquest  of  California  from  Mexico,  w* 
poured  in  upon  the  simple  and  hospitable  people  from  all  parts  of 
the  United  States.  Straneers  in  language  and  religion,  let  it  be  hon- 
estly admitted,  we  were  often  guilty  of  gross  wrong  to  the  conquered 
Ca  ifornians.  Oat  of  this  wrong  suddenly  sprang  Joaquin  Marietta, 
a  mere  boy,  and  yet  one  of  the  boldest  men  in  history.  He  led  his 
men  to  the  mountains  and  defied  the  army.  Bat  he  soon  degener- 
ated into  a  robber,  and  a  largo  reward  was  offered  for  his  head.  He 
was  not  yet  twenty-two  when  killed.  His  head,  I  believe,  is  still  on 
pxhibition  in  San  Francisco.  I  tell  this  with  shams  and  horror. 
The  splendid  daring  and  unhappy  death  of  this  remarkable  youth 
appeal  strongly  to  me;  and,  bandit  as  he  was,  1  aui  bcnnd  to  t&j  I 
have  a  great  respect  for  his  memory. 

THE   END. 


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